Cecilia of Ingleside
by ruby gillis
Summary: COMPLETED! After a mysterious tragedy, Shirley and Una Blythe's daughter, Cecilia, is sent on a journey back to the Island.
1. Far From Home

High above the city of Montreal, in the pearly gray dawn sky, the sun was fighting a battle to peek through and losing. The day was blustery and cool, with a hint of damp. It was the kind of day that the townspeople spent scuttling from shop to shop while conducting their daily errands, in a hurry to get home. The lucky ones got to stay indoors, in front of their roaring fires. It was not a good day to start a journey.

"It looks like rain," Father said, and Cecilia Blythe shivered and pulled her pea-coat more tightly around her thin frame. 

"I don't want to go," she said in a low voice. She didn't exactly mean for Father to hear her, but he did. He smiled at her, but it was a false smile, and when he spoke there was equally false joviality in his voice. 

"Not want to go! Of course you do. Cee, you've spent summers on the Island before."

Cecilia lowered her blue-black eyes. 

"This isn't an ordinary visit."

Father put his hands in his pockets and jingled his loose change. He looked as if he would speak, but didn't. After a long while, he pulled a few coins from his pocket and pressed them in her hand. 

"To buy a treat on the train," he said. "If Miss Branston will let you."

Father's eyes smiled, and Cecilia tried to smile back. Miss Branston, the headmistress of the girls' school, had kindly agreed to accompany Cecilia on her journey. She was notorious for being a modern woman. She rarely gave praise, wore her hair severely bobbed, and thought sweets rotted childrens' teeth. 

"Cheer up, pet," said Father. "You've got stamps galore and you can write me every day. I'll send you more. You've got plenty of pocket money, haven't you? I hear there's a cinema in the Glen now. You'll have loads of time to spend with your cousins—I expect by the time I come for you in September you'll all be the best of friends and you won't want to leave. Got your ticket?"

"Miss Branston does."

"Well then." Father jingled his change. "Give me a kiss then—that's my girl—there's the conductor beckoning. Any last words?"

Cecilia gave him a thin white envelope from the pocket of her coat. It was addressed to Mother. 

Father's eyes softened when he saw it. "I'll give it to her when I see her. Can I read it, Cee? I don't want to give her anything that might upset her."

Cecilia nodded. She had taken great care with the letter—she didn't want to upset Mother, either. She'd chosen her words carefully. _Dear Mother_, it said. _I hope you will get better soon. I'll think of you every day, under the tree in Rainbow Valley, just like I promised. I hope you think of me, too. _

"Cecilia _Blythe_!" The voice echoed in the cavernous station, and Father gave his girl a little push. 

"Love you, pet," said he. "It will be all right. Tell all the old folks I said hello—and I'll keep them up to current when I write. Jem and Nan and Rilla and their broods have promised to set up a party in your honor—no, not right away, in a few weeks, after you've had time to settle in. Di and her chicks are coming up from Avonlea for it. All right, then. One last hug—and another kiss, there's a girl. What will I do without my girl for so long?"

Now the conductor was beckoning, along with Miss Branston. 

"Her bark is fiercer than her bite," Father said, touching Cecilia's nose playfully. "It's not a long trip—you can suffer her for that long. But go, now, before steam comes out of her ears."

Cecilia laughed and pressed her father's hand again. She was still smiling when she took her seat on the train and waved and blew a kiss out the window. But as soon as the train left the station, so did the smile leave her face. She didn't feel happy at all. But she hadn't wanted to upset Father. No matter how sad he was, Father liked to leave people smiling. 

***

"What a somber child you look!" Miss Branston jabbed a long nail at a picture in Cecilia's photo album as the train jolted along the Canadian countryside. "Don't you _ever_ smile?"

Cecilia examined the picture in her lap. In it, she was about three, with a solemn look on her face. Her black hair was cut in a fringe straight across her forehead, adding to the feeling of severity. 

"I was scared of the camera," she defended herself. 

"Oh, Cecilia, you surely can't remember back that far." Miss Branston waved her hand dismissively. 

"I remember _everything_," said Cecilia hotly. "I remember being _born_." 

Miss Branston just laughed again and asked the conductor for another drink of water. 

Cecilia ordered a soda. "Soda rots children's teeth," said Miss Branston. "Besides, you don't have any money."

"Father gave me some," Cecilia said. "Oh, _please_, Miss Branston, Father wanted me to have a treat." She reached her hand into her pocket where she'd put the coins Father gave her. They were not there. She must have lost them! Cecilia scrabbled around, checking her other pockets, and then fell back against her seat, defeated. 

"Water for both of us, please," said Miss Branston triumphantly.

Cecilia turned back to her photo album.

"Why that's your father at Queens!" said Miss Branston, exclaiming over an old photograph. "He looks somber, too—that's where you must have gotten it. But Shirley was a laugh and half when you got to know him. He was the handsomest boy in school—but only because his brothers Jem and Walter had graduated by then. Ha ha! Look." Miss Branston flipped a few pages until she came to a picture of the two brothers standing side by side. "The red-haired one is your Uncle Jem. And the dark one is Walter."

Cecilia looked closely at the picture. Uncle Jem looked kind. Uncle Walter had a dreamy look on his face, as if he hadn't been wholly present when the picture was taken. She flipped a few more pages until she came to a snap of Aunts Di and Nan—the famous Ingleside twins. Auntie Di looked jolly. She had her head thrown back and was laughing. Aunt Nan was smiling serenely—and somewhat proudly. Father said once that Nan's only downfall was that she knew exactly how pretty she was. 

"And there's Rilla and her family," Miss Branston said. "It's amazing how well she's kept her figure after having all those children! But some people say that she wasn't nearly handsome enough to land Kenneth Ford."

"Aunt Rilla is _gorgeous_," said Cecilia with some spirit. "Uncle Ken was _lucky_ to land _her_." She turned over the picture and read the names of the children written on the back in Aunt Rilla's slanting script. _Rilla and Ken Ford, with Gilbert, Owen, Gertrude, and Hannah. _

They looked nice enough. There were also pictures of her other cousins, school pictures of handsome, ruddy children with bright smiles. Walt, Merry, Jake and Nancy, Uncle Jem and Aunt Faith's brood. Joyce and Blythe, Auntie Nan and Uncle Jerry's two. And Bertha and Teddy, Auntie Di's twins. There was a snap of Uncle Bruce, who was at Redmond, and smiling pictures of Grandmother Rosemary and Grandpa Meredith. Snaps of Uncle Carl and Aunt Persis' children, Leslie and Kent. But Cecilia hardly needed pictures of _them_. They lived in Montreal, too, and Cecilia saw them hardly every day. Or she had. She had a sudden pang of longing for her spirited cousin Leslie. How she wished Leslie were coming with her! She hadn't seen the other cousins in so long—not since Susan was born. That was nearly three years ago! What if they were mean to her? What if they didn't like her? 

__

Cecilia felt a sob well up in her throat, and to quash it—she _wouldn't_ cry in front of Miss Branston!—she turned to the back of her album and looked at her favorite picture of all. It featured a smiling man and woman in front of a beautiful, homey-looking house. To the woman's right was a happy looking brown-boy. To her left, was a sad, dark-haired girl. It was Grandmother and Grandfather Blythe, with Mother and Father on their wedding day.

But now, as Cecilia looked at the picture, she saw that mother looked sad even then. Why? Hadn't Leslie said that a girl's wedding day was the happiest in her life? Had Mother been sad always?

There was one more picture in the book, but Cecilia didn't have the heart to look at it. Instead she closed the book and waited until it was dark so that she could cry, silently, to herself, without anyone seeing. 


	2. To Ingleside

When Cecilia opened her eyes it was dawn again. Her cheeks felt stiff and sticky from dried tears. She must have cried herself to sleep.

"Good morning, sleepyhead!" Miss Branston seemed to be in a better mood today. Cecilia saw something in her eyes that let her know Miss Branston had seen her crying. "Poor dear," Miss Branston said. It wasn't like her to be so nice. Cecilia flushed hot with embarrassment.

"I'm going to go freshen up," she said stiffly.

Miss Branston nodded. "I'll have breakfast waiting when you get back."

In the train lavatory, Cecilia washed her face and straightened her hair with the comb in her pocket.

Then she stepped back and surveyed her handiwork.

She'd never thought she was pretty. Her hair was straight and black. It had been banged since she could remember and a thick fringe fell in a straight, stark line across her high, white forehead. Either her face was too small or her eyes too big. Her mouth was a small Valentine—that was nice. But her chin was too pointed, and her eyes an odd, striking blue-black. On Cecilia's best days, people said she was pretty, in an elfin sort of way. But after a night on the train there were dark circles under her eyes, and her mouth turned down in a tired slant. Cecilia thought of her handsome cousins and shrank under her own gaze.

"I hope they won't think I'm ugly," she lamented. "I want them to be my friends—I want them to be proud of me—I want them to like me!"

Before going back to her seat Cecilia searched her pockets again for the money Father had given her. She shook her coat and skirt, but nothing fell out. "Oh, well," she said tiredly. "I would have liked a soda, but it's not meant to be, I suppose."

When she got back to her seat, breakfast had been delivered. Hot, steaming plates of flapjacks and Eggs Benedict. And sitting smack in the center of the tray was a soda, with a scoop of ice cream, no less. Cecilia looked up at Miss Branston, who was eating meticulously and pretended not to notice.

For the first time a pang of excitement—a small pang, but a pang nonetheless—sprang up in Cecilia's heart. Perhaps this journey wouldn't be so bad after all?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dear Father, Cecilia wrote, her eyes inky with concentration.

I am on the Island now. Uncle Bruce met us with a car at the station, and we're whizzing along those red roads I remember so well. He was late meeting us, Uncle Bruce was, and was Miss Branston mad! He'd gone out to one of the benches outdoors and gotten so engrossed in his book that he lost track of time. Miss Branston was very cold and angry to Uncle Bruce and I thought it was because he was so late. She refused a ride, and said she'd rather walk. But when I asked Uncle Bruce about it, he said,

"Penny Branston has always been the most obstinate of women."

I don't know what obstinate means, but from the way Uncle Bruce said it, it can't be complimentary.

There's an ink splotch—we're hitting bumps in the road, Father dearest. Uncle Bruce's car is a jalopy' or so he says, but since he is a student it is all he can afford.

I just had a memory, Dad—as we passed the Four Winds light. Do you remember the last time we were here—three summers ago now—as a family? You and Mother sat under a beach umbrella at the shore and Susan and I played in the surf. I expected the water to be cold, but it wasn't. I remember how Susan liked the little shells that looked like unicorn horns and I made up a story for her about tiny horses that the mermaids rode.

I suppose you'd better not show this letter to Mother, now. That last part might make her sad.

I'm excited about seeing Grandmother and Grandfather Blythe and Grandma and Grandpa Meredith and all the aunts and uncles. I hope they like me. I hope Joyce is not too mean to me. Leslie said she is stuck-up, and jealous, but very beautiful. I don't think it's worth it to be beautiful but stuck-up. I'd rather be pretty on the inside.

You will give Mother my love, won't you, even if you can't show her the letter? You can read her the good parts, any how.

Love always, your girl.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Uncle Bruce was in a bad mood until Miss Branston's slender, stubborn form vanished around the bend in the road and he could no longer see her in the mirror. Then he cheered up.

"It's on to Ingleside now, Little Cee," he said companionably. "You're a quiet kid, aren't you? Like your dad—and Una. But I don't mind. I'm like that myself. Not nervous, are you?"

"I don't think so," said Cecilia slowly. "It's just that I have a queer fluttering—here—below my heart. Like a bird trying to get out. It feels like something will happen, but I don't know what."

Uncle Bruce nodded knowingly. "I know just what you mean. Look up ahead, Cee! See that little farmhouse?"

"Ye-e-es?" said Cecilia slowly.

"Wave to it as we pass—you were born in that house. That's Red Apple Farm."

The old jalopy slowed to a crawl so Cecilia could get a better look. She remembered it, she really did!—the slant of sunlight coming through the window onto the pine floors, her little room with a windowseat, and sitting on the wide front porch as Mother shelled beans.

"Remember?" said Uncle Bruce with a sideways glance.

"Yes," breathed Cecilia. "Uncle Bruce, who lives there now? I loved that house—I hope whoever lives there loves it, too."

"No one lives there," Uncle Bruce said. "Your dad still owns it, I think—he didn't want to sell it because he said the happiest years of his life passed in that house. Di and Jack lived there for a bit after the fire at Green Gables, but that was years and years ago and it's been empty ever since."

"Oh," said Cecilia. For some reason the thought of that house standing empty—and waiting—made her sad. "Did Mother love that house, too?"

"She loved it fiercely," said Uncle Bruce. "I remember being a wee tyke and spending days with her there—Una was like another mother to me. Never was your Mother happier than when she was in that house."

"Then maybe if she came back she would be happy again!" Cecilia cried. Uncle Bruce slanted his eyes toward her again and said, "It might take more than that. Look! See those lights? That's Ingleside."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Ingleside, we're here!" Uncle Bruce called, and suddenly the quiet, lighted house sprang into action. The wide porch was flooded with people—someone grabbed Cecilia and someone else grabbed her bag—she was pressed on all sides, and ushered into the house. A thousand hands, it seemed, were patting her face, and a thousand eyes, it seemed were looking at her. A steady, bright stream of voices were raised up joyfully—most of the Blythes and Meredith's were talkers.

Finally Aunt Di gave a great yell. "Stand back, you urchins!" she laughed. "Let poor Cecilia get some air. She'll be here all summer—there'll be plenty of time to talk and chat."

Cecilia looked at Aunt Di gratefully. She was jolly—she gave a quick, laughing wink in response.

Auntie Nan was in and out of the kitchen but stopped in her haste to give Cecilia a quick kiss—"I don't want my pies to burn!"

"She prides herself on her pies," said Uncle Jerry, and shook her hand.

"Hello, Cee!" Aunt Faith called, poking her head out from the kitchen.

Uncle Jack picked Cecilia up in a bear hug, and Auntie Rilla and Uncle Ken swooped in to kiss both her cheeks. Grandmother Rosemary smiled and Grandpa Meredith touched her shining black head like a benediction.

"You remember this brood, don't you, Sis?" said handsome Uncle Jem indicating the crowd of Ingleside children that had gathered behind him.. He had smile lines around his eyes when he laughed.

Cecilia surveyed the group timidly. She wanted to hide behind Aunt Di's skirts—but she wouldn't—she was a big girl of almost fourteen, not a baby!

The big boys, Gil and Walter, smiled at her, but were more engrossed in a radio programme than they were in this new arrival. They were sixteen years old—they had no use for Cecilia, who they looked at and immediately thought to be a little girl. True she was just a year younger than Joyce—but Joyce was tall and Cecilia was thin and pale and looked much younger. The littler boys, Owen and Teddy and Jack, tried to imitate their elder cousins' cool demeanor, but all three of them gave Cecilia rougish grins.

Merry gave a wave on her way to the kitchen where she was helping the aunts, and Bertha and Trudy, holding hands, whispered in each others' ears—but smiled, kindly. The two Anne Shirleys, Hannah Ford and Nancy Blythe, born on the same day, and the true babies of the family, peeked out from beneath the legs of the kitchen table curiously, their wide hazel eyes shining.

Then Cecilia's gaze came to rest on Joyce.

There was no doubt that Joyce was beautiful. Her hair was a smooth, glossy curtain—smoother than molasses candy—and her eyes were a deep, soulful gray. Her features looked as if they had been molded out of china, and her long lashes flicked as she looked Cecilia up and down. Then she laughed—but it was not a friendly laugh like the others'. Cecilia did not like Joy's laugh.

Then she spoke. "Cat got your tongue?" Joy said—and laughed again.

"Stop it, Joy," said a quiet voice, and Blythe Meredith stepped forward.

He was the handsomest boy Cecilia had ever seen. He had molasses hair, too, but his stuck up jauntily in all directions. His eyes were gray, too, but had a sympathetic glint, and his own china-fine features flashed on his sister so that she stopped giggling and looked down at her feet.

"Of course she's quiet," Blythe said, taking Cecilia's hand in his own. "She's had a long journey, haven't you, Cecilia?"

Her name sounded so nice when he said it—like music! Cecilia was glad he didn't call her Sis or Cee like the others. Blythe took her seriously—Blythe knew her—she knew in a moment that Blythe was a kindred spirit. Cecilia flushed. All of those eyes were still looking at her, pressing down on her—she felt she must say something.

"Hello," she quavered, with a starkly white face and a voice like a broken bell. And then, still holding tightly to her cousin's hand, Cecilia Blythe fainted.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Somewhere, a bird was chirping. It sounded like the bluebirds that built their nest in the willow tree outside the bedroom window at home. Cecilia rolled over in bed—stretched—and then sat up, suddenly awake.

She wasn't at home! Oh, where was she?

It took a moment for the memory of the day before to come flooding back but it did. Cecilia cringed with embarrassment. Had she really fainted in front of all of her cousins? Oh, what a baby they must think her—what a tremendous girl! She had hoped to impress them with how brave and grown-up she was and she had done none of those things. Instead she had toppled over like a windblown tree—probably not very gracefully, either.

But that feeling soon wore off as Cecilia surveyed her surroundings.

She was in a very pretty room. The walls were papered with a creamy white blossomy print, and lawn curtains fluttered at the window. There was a washbasin and pitcher painted with rosebuds, and a gilt mirror. Cecilia looked at her reflection in that mirror and thought she looked almost pretty.

The bed she was in was covered with an apple-leaf quilt—and an identical bed against the opposite wall matched it. "I must be in the twins' old room," Cecilia murmured. "It's not my dear little room at home—but it is pretty."

There was one thing missing. Quick as a flash, she jumped out of bed and took from her bag a photo of Leslie. She tucked it in the mirror frame and blew it a kiss. "That other bed's for when you come to visit, dearest," she said airily.

From downstairs came the clatter of dishes and chatter of voices as dinner was prepared. Cecilia felt herself shrink back again.

"Oh, I can't go down there," she thought. "Not after last night."

It turned out she didn't need to. There was a soft rap on her door and a smiling voice called, "May I come in?"

"Grandmother!" Cecilia ran to the door and flung it open and in a minute was in her Grandmother Blythe's arms.

"Oh dearest!" she said as Grandmother's arms went around her. "I missed you last night—didn't I—I didn't see you in all the fuss! Oh, Grandmother, darling—are they all talking about me down there? About what—a baby—I was last night?"

Anne Blythe laughed, her eyes sparkling with light, and gathered the thin creature with the pitifully big eyes closer to her. "Yes, my Cecilia, they are talking about you—but only about how happy they are that you're here. And no one thinks you were a baby last night—just a terribly tired, overwrought girl. Oh, little one—I am glad to see you."

"I still don't want to go down until after everyone's left," said Cecilia mournfully. "They might not be embarrassed of me—but I am."

Grandmother laughed. "I'll tell you what," she said, touching Cecilia's upturned little nose. "I'll bring breakfast up for both of us, and we can chat—I want to hear all about your journey. How does that sound? Darling girl—why are you crying?"

"I miss Father." Cecilia was horrified as two more fat tears slid down her cheeks. "And—I'm so—worried about Mother."

Grandmother Blythe smiled a gentle smile and stooped to kiss the shining black head of her little granddaughter.

"Your father called at dawn—and all is well at home. Leslie's watching your kitten and she says to tell you that he's fine—but he misses you. There, that should make you feel better. Dear, what's the matter now?"

For Cecilia had burst into a fresh round of sobs.

"You're—just—so sweet, Grandmother!" Cecilia cried. "I feel bad for being upset—I am glad to be here."

"I know you are," Grandmother said. "I'll go and get our breakfast. Your grandfather is on a house call now with Uncle Jem—but later he wants to take you for a walk on the shore."

In the hallway Anne Blythe leaned against the door and listened to the still-tired cries of the girl within. Cecilia was a gentle creature and the rest of the Ingleside brood, though well-intentioned, was a fierce, rambunctious group. Anne hoped they wouldn't be too much for this little girl. She had been through enough in these past months.

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A/N: I'm back! I'm ashamed to admit that I've been a total slacker these past few months. Let's just say the inspiration fairy went on a vacation and I was having trouble writing things I was happy with. But I'm back and taking just a short hiatus for now from my Juliet story—but it is definitely not abandoned. I have so many ideas about what's going to happen with Juliet, Allan, Mona, Maggie, etc.

I still have been reading all your stories, and they are all so good! I was just afraid to comment because I didn't want you all to call me out on what a slacker I was being!

I hope you like this story, and I'm so glad to be back.

ruby aka Cathy


	3. Moonlight and Poetry

__

Dear Father: 

I am determined to write a happy lette r this time, one that you can show Mother. I have been at Ingleside for two days and already Trudy, Bertha and I have vowed to be eternal friends. Doesn't that sound romantic, Father? Only it's really just me and Trudy, since Bertha lives in Avonlea and we don't see her that often. But we will think of her religiously_. Before bed every night, Trudy and I kneel in the direction of Avonlea and send beautiful thoughts in her direction. I've been spending a lot of nights at Auntie Rilla's. She's a duck, Father--and she lets us eat our bedtime snack _ in bed_._

Trudy and I are also going to be best friends with Cathy Douglas down at the harbor. Cathy is a jolly girl, and has the most marvelous secrests, but her mother is a little queer. She does not want to call us Mrs. Douglas, but Mary Vance. She says 'Mrs. Douglas' makes her feel too old.I can't get in the habit of calling her Mary Vance, but I can write it without any problem. She is_ Mary Vance--she doesn't seem to have grown up at all. Mary Vance fights all the time. With her neighbors, her husband, and Nellie, who is Cathy's sister. But everyone seems to love her all the same. When I told her about Mother, Mary Vance sat down and cried and then blew her nose in her apron. She says Mother is the first person who was kind to her, ever. _

Grandfather Blythe took me for a walk along the shore and we talked--Uncle Jem showed me how to take a splinter out of my foot without it hurting. It is so nice to have doctors in the family, isn't it, Dad? And Uncle Ken let the big boys, Gil and Walter, row me around in the pond but I didn't like that. They rocked the boat and thought it was funny when I was scared. But then they felt bad because I was so frightened, and bought me ice cream on the way back. I liked that_. _

Jake and Owen and Teddy, when he is here, are fun to play with. At first they treated me like a girl, but then I climbed all the way to the top of one of the Tree Lovers in Rainbow Valley and they stopped that. But Aunt Nan saw me and says I almost gave her a heart attack. Why, Dad? She doesn't bat an eyelash when the boys do it! 

On one of my climbs, I found the bells at the top of the Tree Lovers. They are rusted so that they don't ring any more. But no one will take them down because Uncle Walter put them there. I think Uncle Walter would like that they are still there. But Joyce says they are an eyesore and wants to take them down. I don't think we should take them down, because they are a family tradition. And anyway, Grandmother won't let anyone move them.

Hannah and Nancy like it when I read to them, so I do every night after dinner. We are halfway through The Moral of the Rose_. I think Mother would like that book, and when we are done I will send her my copy. Joy is cross because before I came she was the one who read to the little girls. Joy is not--very nice, Father. I thought she would be nicer since her own Father is a minister. But Blythe, her brother, is nice enough so that he makes up for it. Anyway, Joy cannot be so bad because she and Merry are best friends. And I like Merry, so I guess I like Joyce _by proxy. 

I must go now, Dad, but I'll write again tomorrow. Auntie Faith is taking me to the cinema tonight--there's a funny picture playing. She said I can pick one cousin to go along with us, but I don't know who to pick. I want to take Blythe but the others might get mad if I do. I told Aunt Faith that I had a dilemma, and she said to be creative. So we are going to cast lots for it. You don't think that's too_ wicked, do you, Dad?_

Love, your girl,

CECILIA

***

Cecilia had just finished saying her goodnights to Bertie in the direction of Avonlea and was already thinking of how nice it would be to slip beneath the covers, when there was a tap at her bedroom window. She ran to it, and threw up the sash--it was so much more poetic to say _threw up the sash_ than _opened the window_--leaned out, and peered down into the dimness below. 

"Let's go on a moon-spree, Cecilia!" Blythe called up to her. 

Cecilia was a very tired girl indeed--she had had a full day--but suddenly she thrilled at the thought of a late night moon-spree with Blythe. She had never heard that term before but knew right away what it meant--the very phrase conjured up a delicious picture in her mind of whitely moonlit walks and ghostly phosphorescence on the sea. 

"I'll be down," she said, and dressed and _was_ down in a flash. She and Blythe smiled at each other--once again a flash of understanding passed between them. They clasped hands and as of one mind and spirit set off toward the shining dunes that bordered the Harbor Mouth--the best place for moon watching. 

"What a night!" Blythe exulted and Cecilia gloated as they passed rows of sleeping houses. Not a light was on in one--and Cecilia felt immensely sorry for the people inside who were missing out on this starry, shadowy beauty. The two collapsed on the dunes and stared up at the starry, starry night. Why, the sky was more stars that it was dark! They looked like icy diamonds scattered on black velvet. There were no stars like this in the city. And what an enchanting, pearly path the moon made, shining on the still sea. 

Blythe noticed it, too, and quoted: 

__

Winken, Blinken, and Nod one night 

Sailed off in a wooden shoe -- 

Sailed off on a river of crystal light, 

Into a sea of dew. 

"Where are you going, and what do you wish?" 

The old moon asked the three. 

"We have come to fish for the herring fish 

That live in the beautiful sea; 

Nets of silver and gold have we!" 

Said Winken, 

Blinken, 

And Nod.

Cecilia thrilled at the loveliness of it all. Her eyes smiled at Blythe to go on, so he did, and repeated the rest of the poem. The cousins lay on the sand that was still sun-warmed and Blythe ran through the rest of the poems he had learned. Cecilia was lulled into a half-sleep by the sound of the waves, and the wind in the sea grasses as Blythe went on. She heard him talk of Ozymandius, king of kings, and 'hosts of golden daffodils,' and 'crosses row on row' in Flanders Fields, and her mind conjured fantastic fanciful pictures in her head. 

"Oh, I love to hear you talk!" Cecilia cried when he had exhausted his repertoire, sorry he was finished. "You know so many poems, Blythe!" 

"I'm going to _be_ a poet one day," Blythe said seriously. "So I have to read as much as I can--and I like learning things by heart. That way I can carry them with me and pull them out whenever I want."

"I wish I could do that, too," Cecilia mourned. She knew only one poem by heart--the one Uncle Walter had written, before he died. There was a clipping of it from a newspaper on her mirror at home. "But even if I did, I could never say them like you, Bly. When you were reciting I _saw_ the things you talked about--I really did! I wish," the little maiden sighed, "That _I_ had an especial talent."

"I think you do," Blythe said companionably and candidly. "You are the best listener I've met--somehow, I like talking more when I'm talking to you. Does that make sense? And you're the prettiest girl I've ever seen. If I was a painter I'd paint you as you look now--you look like a naiad, come out of the sea to bask in the light of the moon. I'll paint you with words, I think--I'm going to write a poem about you."

* * * 

The poem was written, and produced a few days later at the party thrown by the aunts to formally welcome Cecilia to the Glen. It also happened to be Cecilia's birthday. Never before had she had such a fuss made about her birthday! But here, at Ingleside, birthdays were holy days. Grandmother woke her with a special breakfast on the verandah at dawn and Grandfather had given her a kitten--her very own kitten--which he'd gotten from one of his patients. 

The older boys had given her a kite they'd made themselves--a fanciful, slithering, dragon-shaped kite--and they'd taught her how to fly it. Cecilia could make it go higher than the lighthouse, almost! Bertie gave her a bottle of perfume--Trudy gave her a diary with a little lock and key--Merry sewed her a beautiful gingham dress, and Teddy, Owen and Jake took her fishing in Rainbow Valley--where they culminated the festivities with a midday feast in Cecilia's honor. 

Joy even thawed a trifle, enough to drop a chilly kiss on her cousin's cheek and press a package of hair ribbons into her hand. Cecilia gazed at them sadly--in the world of youth, hair ribbons were what you got someone when they were not an especial friend--they were what you got someone when you didn't know what else to get them. But Cecilia was determined to make an effort, since Joyce was. She tied one of the pink ribbons around her hair--even though it did not match her blue dress--and said, very cordially, "Thank you, Joy. I saw these ribbons in Carter Flag's store. My, they're pretty!"

"Well, I had to get you _something_," Joy sniffed. "And I suppose they aren't as nice as the ones you'd get in _Montreal_, but perhaps they'll do."

Cecilia's spirits sank the tiniest bit after that but were soon buoyed up by the exuberance of everyone at the party. The girls and boys of Glen St. Mary were a fun, spirited bunch, weren't they? And the aunts hadn't been sure what kind of cake she liked best so they made _three_ kinds--chocolate, vanilla, and lemon! _Who_ could ask for more wonderful aunts?

There was a fireworks show put on by the uncles after they all had cake, and as the last of the blazing sparks died away, Blythe stood up to deliver Cecilia his present to her. 

"A poem," he said in his grave, stately way, and read, 

__

O naiad fair with shining hair 

As black as blackest night

Your skin is white and eyes are blue--

You are a lovely sight!

It was a very valiant attempt for such a young boy, but the grownups had to grin and bite their lips to keep from laughing. The younger fry, however, were amazed and rapt. Trudy squeezed Cecilia's hand and Bertie sighed, "Oh, how I wish someone would write so about _me_!" 

"He--hasn't--said it's about me," said Cecilia, who was blushing with embarrasment and glowing with pride simultaneously. 

"Of course it is," Cathy Douglas hissed. "Shh!--there's another stanza."

Blythe continued. 

__

O dryad fair I want to share

This poem for your praise

I know you will be just as fair

Until the end of days. 

The party guests--especially the girls--squealed and clapped. Cecilia was kissed by all those around her and basked in the glow of Blythe's smile. Why, did he really think her fair? She flushed prettily--at that moment she _was_ the prettiest girl in the room. Her beauty was like a slender white lily or a blithe, dancing iris. Joy saw this and scowled--and Cecilia saw the scowl. In the early moonlight Joy's eyes flashed like white lightning--and some of the bloom went off the party for Cecilia. 

"Oh why," she thought, with a pang of irritation, "doesn't Joyce _like_ me?"

__


	4. Golden Days

The Ingleside children all loved one another--either if some of them did not _like_ one another--and the start of every summer was an orgy of togetherness. They were always together--they climbed trees and went on seaside jaunts together--they made the hills and valleys of the Glen ring with their laughter and singing. There townspeople heard them through their open windows and smiled. There was a saying in Glen St. Mary: "The _Blythe_ will inherit the earth." 

But as the summer waxed, the group split off into pairs or small groups. The big boys went West to help Uncle Davy his farm, and the littler boys, who were always together, swaggered and threw back their shoulders for _they_ were the big boys now, at least until the summer was over. 

"You know, it's not fair," Owen confided to Cecilia in Rainbow Valley one day. "I'll always be called a little boy, because as long as I live, Gil and Walt will always be older than me."

"Well, they were born first," said the practical Cecilia. 

"That's not _my_ fault," said Owen just as practically. "Why should I be punished for it?"

Owen was always asking questions like that. 

Joy and Merry, though just a year older than Cecilia, had passed into a mysterious realm where members of the opposite sex were to be gushed over, and discussed. Which they spent most of their time doing, while sewing pretty dresses together on the Ingleside verandah. Cecilia could not understand her cousins' fascination with _boys_--although she did get a warm feeling in her chest when Blythe looked at her in a certain light or smiled at her when they were sharing a secret. But that was only because they were especial friends. 

Seeing the two girls together like that, though, their matching brown heads glistening in the sun, made Cecilia wonder again what someone as nice as Merry could see in someone as awful as Joy. For Merry was very nice, really, and a whiz with her needle and thread. She had made the darlingest blue velvet coat and when she saw Cecilia looking at it enviously, she said, 

"When I've grown out of it, it's yours."

She was a duck, was Merry. 

Trudy and Cecilia were inseparable, and spent their days exploring every hill and dale in the Glen. They didn't see Bertie as much as they would have liked, but there were other young folks to keep them entertained. Cathy Douglas's house was a wonderful place to play because Mary Vance didn't care how loud you were or how dirty you got. Sometimes she played _with_ the rest of them, even though there was dinner to be cooked and laundry to be folded! She could make the most amazing, hair-raising war-whoops. Cecilia and Trudy had spent a whole evening practicing them in the yard, until Carter Flagg phoned up and asked if someone was being murdered at Ingleside. _Then_ Grandmother had asked them, nicely, to stop, and given them each a cookie and a smile when they did. 

Blythe joined them, sometimes, although most of his time was spent on solitary rambles. No one knew what he did on those rambles--but Cecilia. He had shown her a little brown notebook full of poems--delicate, simple, ethereal poems that captured the very spirit and essence of the places and things Blythe wrote about. 

"How do you decide what to write about?" Cecilia asked. "I would never have thought to write about that old gnarled oak on the hill--it's ugly--and twisted--but you've made it beautiful. I shall always think of it as an old man keeping watch after this--battered and tired but not giving up hope." 

"I don't _decide_ to write poems about things," Blythe said pensively. "It's more like--they come to me. When I look at something especially beautiful my heart snags--it's almost painful--but it's lovely too. And a poem just washes over me. Sometimes I don't feel like _I'm_ writing them at all. More like plucking them out of the air."

Blythe did not say just then, but he often got that feeling when he was looking at Cecilia. He kept another little brown notebook full of odes to her obsidian hair and midnight blue eyes that was getting fuller by the day. 

* * * 

In the evenings they would all meet in Rainbow Valley and discuss the day. These nights were always pleasant. Even Joy was too tired and contented to be mean. The grownups oftentimes came too, and Cecilia was glad. The Ingleside children didn't dislike or resent their grownups--probably because the Ingleside grownups weren't like regular ones. At times it was almost as if they hadn't grown up themselves. And what a jolly bonfire Uncle Jem could make! How good it felt to have Auntie Rilla stroking her hair. 

And they had such interesting stories! Cecilia laughed until her sides ached at the escapades of Uncles Jerry and Carl, Aunt Faith, and Mother. Who could have thought that they would have been so _bad_ when they were children?

"Oh Auntie Faith," Cecilia gasped. "Did--they--really eat your rooster for dinner?"

"'They' did," Uncle Jerry said. "And I remember him being quite good, too."

Aunt Faith swatted him, but laughed herself. 

"Do you remember your Good Conduct club?" Uncle Jem asked. "And how you punished yourselves for cleaning in the Methodist graveyard?"

"Tell us, tell us!" the youngsters begged, even the ones who had heard the story before. So Uncle Jerry winked at Auntie Faith, and did. 

* * * 

"Doesn't Cecilia look like Una in the firelight!" Aunt Faith exclaimed on one of these evenings, as Cecilia lay on the still-sunwarmed grass, drowsy with sleep. "The same nose--those bluely black eyes--the same tilt of the mouth and chin. _Doesn't_ she look like Una?"

"Cecilia is as sweet as Una," Uncle Jerry said. "But I hope she's not touched by the same hand that made Una--so melancholy."

"Shirley's always been jolly," said Auntie Nan. "Maybe Cecilia will take after him."

"_Why _was Mother always sad?" Cecilia mumbled sleepily, and the grownups were silent for a bit. 

"I think Owen looks like Shirley," said Aunt Rilla, still stroking Cecilia's hair. It was as if Cecilia hadn't spoken at all! "I sometimes call him my 'little brown boy'just like Shirley was, do you remember?"

The Ingleside grownups might have been jollier and gentler and dreamier than other grownups, but there were still some things that they did not talk about around the small fry. 

They were very like other grownups in that respect. 

* * * 

Joy was still a dark spot on Cecilia's bright summer. For somehow it _had_ turned into a happy summer. All the letters from Father said that Mother _was_ getting better, slowly but surely. Those at Ingleside thrilled to hear little Cecilia's laughter ring out loud and clear. They'd thought the child would never laugh. And look at her! She was brown as an Indian and her normally peaked face glowed with health. 

But Joy--just today Joy had been bragging about going to Queens. She hadn't singled Cecilia out for anything, but she had said what a shame it was that _all_ the Ingleside children couldn't go there. Cecilia loved St. Agnes's, but it was a bit of a sore spot that she didn't get to go to Queens, too. Father had gone there, and all the aunts and uncles, and Grandmother, too!

But Cecilia would not let Joy get the satisfaction of seeing her upset. 

"Oh, well, Queens is all right--for and _Island_ school," she said loftily. And then cried all afternoon in Rainbow Valley because she felt disloyal to Father and Grandmother!

"It's not fair," said Cecilia to Trudy as the girls walked along the Shore Road one of those golden summer afternoons, when the air is heavy with contentment and allure. "Joy said today it was _such a shame_ I wasn't born on the Island. She seemed so _haughty_ when she said it that I just gritted my teeth with rage. Uncle Jem and Aunt Faith's children weren't born on the Island--nor were Leslie and Kent--and she doesn't twit _them_ about it. Uncle Jem said Aunt Nan used to tease him about being born at the House of Dreams instead of Ingleside--but being teased because you weren't born on the Island is much, _much_ worse."

"Well, you can't help not being born on the Island," Trudy said amiably, linking her arm through her cousin's. Her big green eyes were consoling, but secretly, she thought _not_ being born on the Island was one of the greatest tragedies that could befall someone. "None of us can help where we were born."

"It's not true, though," said Cecilia. "I _was_ born on the Island. Uncle Bruce showed me the little house on the way in. It's the dearest little red house, Trudy--and very near the Four Winds light."

"Well, let's go and set it, then," said Trudy, who was always up for an afternoon adventure. She grabbed Cecilia's hand and together, the girls set off. 

* * * 

A/N: Someone asked for a family tree, and I wanted to break it down piece by piece so no one gets confused: 

Jem and Faith Blythe: 

Walter, Meredith [Merry], John Knox [Jake], Anne Shirley [Nancy] 

Nan and Jerry Meredith: 

Joyce and Blythe 

Di and Jack Wright: 

Bertha [Bertie] and Frederick [Teddy]

Shirley and Una Blythe: 

Cecilia and Susan.

Carl and Persis Meredith: Leslie and Kenneth [Kent]

Rilla and Ken Ford: 

Gilbert, Owen, Gertrude [Trudy], and Anne Shirley [Hannah]

Walter and Gilbert are the oldest grandchildren, and the two Anne Shirleys the youngest. They're 16 and 8 respectively at the start of the story. Some of these 3rd generation Blythes, Merediths, and Fords (Gilbert, Joy, Trudy, Owen, and Hannah, Blythe and Cecilia) are featured in my Juliet of New Moon stories. 

Hope that clears things up! Thanks for the comments and reviews. I love them!


	5. A Question and an Answer

The little red house stood on the hill and watched as the two girls climbed toward it. It was alone, apart from the other houses, but it was not lonely. It had memories enough to keep it full--happy memories--memories that washed over Cecilia as she neared it. 

It was the darlingest little house. However could Mother and Father left it? Cecilia loved their grand stone house in the city--it was a friend, a good chum, full of bright sunshine and faded quilts--but this house was _more_. It was full of shadows--golden shadows made by the sun streaming through the leaves of the many apple trees--it had mystery--contentedness--and allure. The yard was as green as a jewel and the gulf glittered blue in the distance. The wide board porch was shady and sun-warmed, and the most charming wooden sign hung at the end of the lane, reading Red Apple Farm, with bluest of blue morning glories twined around it. 

"Let's go in," said the forthright Trudy. Her eyes shimmered like emeralds and her hair was as ruddy as the red road that lead to the door. Why, this was a magical house! It made everyone and everything look more beautiful. 

The doors were locked tight and the windows shuttered up, but Cecilia managed to climb up the rose trellis to a skylight. She opened it--removed her skirt from the catch on which it was caught--and shimmied down. 

She was met by a feeling of calm. The house smelled like cinnamon and apple peel--and something else? Lavender and beeswax. The furniture was shrouded with dropcloths to keep it from being dusty. It should have looked sad and uninviting--but it didn't. 

"It's like a real, live play house!" Trudy exclaimed, looking around with awe when Cecilia let her in. "With a real kitchen--we can't use it, of course, the gas isn't on. But won't it be fun to pretend? Come on, Cecilia--do you remember which room is yours?"

They ran through the near-empty rooms to the back of the house, where Cecilia threw open a little door. 

"My room!" she said. "Oh, I remember you!" She laughed--and her laughter echoed so it was like the house was laughing, too. 

* * * 

"Where do you two urchins _go_ all day!" Aunt Rilla exclaimed as Cecilia and Trudy showed up for one night late for supper. "You disappear all day--I call and call and you all don't come so I know you're not in Rainbow Valley. And then you show up--and you look like you've been rolling around in the dirt!"

Cecilia and Trudy exchanged glances. They had been going to the little house almost every day--and setting it up--it _was_ very dusty. They'd spent the better part of the week cleaning the floors and the furniture--how was it that they disliked doing chores around Ingleside and the House of Dreams so much, but at Red Apple Farm it was _fun_?

They'd found all sorts of treasures in the house. A box of baby clothes in the garret that were so tiny that they fit perfectly on a doll. A crystal chandelier with almost all of the glass missing--but the ones that remained reflected dancing fairy rainbows all over. The girls strung them on fishing wire and hung them at the windows, and the walls of the house were patterned with shining, shimmering color. Old dresses--they spent a lot of time playing dress up in front of a gilt mirror in one of the bedrooms that was like looking into an enchanted glass--Cecilia felt she had never looked prettier than she looked in that mirror. It was part of the house's magic. 

There was a very old clock with hanging brass plates that rang to mark the changing of the tide. How good it had felt to set it ticking again! There were china plates painted with apple blossoms--and two green china dogs on the mantle, one looking right, and one looking left. 

But the most amazing thing Cecilia had found had been a book of poems on the top of a high shelf in the garret. There was a faded old letter tucked between the pages addressed to Aunt Rilla herself! A letter than made their eyes flood with tears--a letter that seemed to have been written from beyond the grave--a letter that made them hear far-off, distant music of the Piper. And some of the poetry had been underlined, two lines especially,

__

Her eyes of lovely steadfastness

Were deep and midnight dark, and blue.

"That sounds like something Blythe would write," Cecilia breathed, thrilling to the tips of her toes with the delight of a mystery. 

"It sounds like something he would write about _you_. Look at the name on the flyleaf," Trudy said. "The letter's addressed to Mother--but the name in the book is _your_ mother's, Cecilia. Una Meredith--it must have been before she and Uncle Shirley got married."

And the name of the author--of book and letter--was Walter Cuthbert Blythe. 

The girls talked over the mystery of the book and letter for a long time, sitting together in the sunlit parlor until the big windows grew dusky with twilight . 

"I wonder if we'll ever know why Mother kept these things?" Cecilia mused. "And if they were important enough to keep--why leave them here? And _did_ Uncle Walter write those lines about Mother?"

"I don't know," Trudy said, clasping her brown hands around her knees. "And we'll probably never know. I hate to ask Mother or Grandmother about Uncle Walter--they get so sad and their eyes look as if they are seeing something very far away. I don't like it when Mother cries. It's strange--a Mother shouldn't _cry_."

Cecilia's own Mother never cried. Not even when Susan had died--dear little Susan--not once. Cecilia sometimes wished she _would_ cry. Maybe that would get rid of the terribly anguished look in her eyes. Had Mother cried yet? Father wrote that she was getting better every day--was that terrible look in her eyes still there?

"No," said Cecilia dully. "A mother shouldn't cry."

* * * 

Susan had been the sweetest baby. She had had lovely rosy curls all over her head--she had a smooth, browned skin like Father--she had deep, chocolatey brown eyes like Grandfather Blythe. She had smiled--really smiled--at Cecilia not an hour after her birth, and Cecilia had felt that she and her new sister had known each other from somewhere before--maybe in a past life, maybe during their time as baby angels, waiting to be born. 

She had been the sweetest baby--and the sweetest little girl. They never had to ask Cecilia to look after Susan--the girls were always together anyway. Cecilia could still feel the pressure of Susan's chubby little hand in her own. Sometimes, at night, she woke up and thought she was in the little room they shared, and that she could hear little Susan lisping her name. How nice it had been to come home from school and see Susan's shining crimson head at the window, waiting for and waving at her. 

They had been such a happy little family, Mother, Father, and the two girls. Their little house was always so full of laughter and singing. But after Susan--died--all of that had gone away. Father tried to laugh but it was a bitter sound, and Cecilia sang by herself for a while--but she didn't like the sound of her voice without Susan's blending in. And Mother--Mother hadn't seemed to notice anything was amiss. She sat by the window and grew paler and thinner than she had ever been--and Mother had been pale and thin to begin with. She wouldn't eat--and she still talked as if Susan were _alive_--to hear her do so had chilled Cecilia to the bone. 

The aunts and uncles probably knew the truth--but the cousins had simply been told that Auntie Una was ill and in hospital. Cecilia didn't want them to know the truth, but she told Blythe one day, as they sat near the babbling brook in Rainbow Valley. It was so easy--so natural--to tell things to Blythe. 

"It _is_ a hospital--but it's for people who are sad," she explained. "Oh, I hated visiting Mother there. She looked at me like she was seeing _through_ me--and there was always the sound of someone, somewhere, crying."

"It sounds awful," Blythe said, his eyes telling her that she could go on. 

"I can write to her." Cecilia choked back a sob. "But I can't write anything that might upset her. It's so hard. Mother and I were always such good chums--we always talked about _everything_ together. Oh, Bly, you can't tell the others--promise you won't. I'm--so--ashamed."

"I won't tell," Blythe said. "I give you my word as an Islander I won't. But--Cecilia--you shouldn't be ashamed of your mother."

"I'm _not--I'm not!_" said Cecilia vehemently. "I could never be ashamed of Mother-- dear Mother! I'm ashamed of myself--I feel as though I'm not enough--that if I tried harder and was better, I could make her happy myself."

Blythe was an old soul in a young person's body, and despite his happy life in the Glen, he knew, somehow, that it ran deeper than that. But since he was a young boy he didn't know how to say it. Instead he just squeezed his pretty cousin's hand and dropped a kiss on her cheek. How was it that she looked so pretty even when she was crying? Her blue eyes sparkled like wet diamonds in the afternoon light. 

* * * 

"Look at the state of you children! You look like you've been playing in the cinder heap!" Auntie Nan echoed Aunt Rilla's statement of days early when the three cousins, Trudy, Cecilia, and Blythe, showed up exceedingly smudged and dirty on the doorstep of the manse one late summer evening. 

Thecousins shared a glance. Oh, what an afternoon they'd had at Red Apple Farm! They'd packed a basket of food from the Ingleside pantry, telling Grandmother they were going for a picnic, and had such a feast at the dining room table of the little house. Cecilia had polished it until it shone--they ate off of the apple-blossom plates--and Bly had tried to light a fire in the fireplace for "atmosphere."

Blythe was very big on creating atmosphere. 

But oh--they hadn't opened the flu! They hadn't known to. And ash had gone all over their faces and clothes. Cecilia didn't even mind that her pretty gingham dress from Merry was so dirty--they'd had a wonderful time, laughing loudly in the little house, until their sides ached. And it seemed the very walls had soaked up their laughter. Cecilia loved the little house more and more each time she visited it. 

"You should have washed off in the stream before you came home," Aunt Nan was scolding. "You know I don't like seeing you in such a state!" 

"But we did, Mother," Blythe grinned. "You should have seen the state of us _before_."

* * * 

Yes, the had told Blythe about the house. Somehow--Cecilia _couldn't_ keep secrets from him, no matter how hard she tried. He had been as enraptured with it as Cecilia was herself--Trudy _liked_ the house and thought it very sweet, but Cecilia and Blair loved it fiercely. 

They loved it by the early morning light, when it was sleepy and watchful, they loved it in the bright midday sun when it was joyful and sunny, and they loved it by night when it was shadowy and alluring. By a great feat of trickery the cousins had managed to spend the night there. Trudy told Aunt Rilla she was spending the night at Aunt Nan's, Blythe told Aunt Nan he was spending the night at Ingleside, and Cecilia told Grandmother she would stay over at the House of Dreams. They had slept all night on the verandah of the little house, the night winds weaving through the trees and the stars brighter than ever before and the air sweet with the scent of apple blossoms.

Cecilia said her prayers, blessing all her kin--save Joy, who just that day had been snide at dinner time. She blessed her friends--sent a kiss to Bertie in Avonlea and Leslie at home, and then, on impulse blessed everyone who had seen her little red house and loved it, and everyone that had ever lived there. She blessed so many people that she thought Trudy and Blythe had both fallen asleep around he r, until Blythe spoke. 

"Can you see that cloud up there!" he marvelled. "It's blocking out the moon--it looks like a witch on a broomstick."

"Don't be--spooky." Cecilia laughed and shivered all at once. 

"Don't be frightened," Blair countered. "Because that cloud over the top of the fir tree is a floating, glimmering _good_ witch--an angel--who will watch and protect us through the night."

"Bly," Cecilia said, still staring up at the night loveliness, which gave her the courage to finally voice her worry. "Why--doesn't--Joy like me?"

Blythe turned on his side and faced her. 

"She likes you," he said.

"She doesn't! Why, just today at dinner she said--she said--"

"What?"

"She said I had a face like a gargoyle," Cecilia said miserably. 

Blythe laughed. "Well you can make some gargoylish faces when you're mad. Your little brow furrows like a thundercloud. Joy is--Joy is just--"

Blythe floundered miserably himself. He was torn between loyalty for his sister--and desire to sooth the concern in his sweet cousin's eyes. A gargoyle! She wasn't--she was sweet--sweeter than the smell of apple blossoms on the wind. 

"Jealous," he finished. "Joy is just--jealous."

"Of me!" Cecilia marveled. "But--why?"

"Because she knows I love you so," Blythe said forthrightly. "Joy and I are like twins--we were born on the same day a year apart. We're linked together forever. Sometimes I can tell what she's thinking when she hasn't even spoken. We love each other--so--but Joy's afraid if anyone else loves me, I'll love _them_ more than her."

Cecilia tried to remember the way it had felt when little Susan had asked Leslie to do her hair--how she'd rathered that Mother tucked her into bed. Yes, that did smart. She--understood. 

"I can't forgive Joyce for being so mean to me," she thought. "She should have more confidence in me--I don't want to _steal_ Blythe--I just want to love him, too. No, I can't forgive her--but I can understand."

Blythe slipped off into slumberland, but Cecilia lay awake still. Something was niggling at her conscience. For good measure she added an addendum to her prayers and blessed all of the teachers at her school, everyone in the Glen and Four Winds, and everyone who was sick. And everyone who had to stay up late and run the lighthouses. What a lonely job that must be! 

But still, sleep would not come. She tossed and turned, and finally gave a sigh and caved in. 

"God bless Joyce, too," she grumbled. "Even if she is hateful to me sometimes. And God--if she really does like me--oh _please_ let her show it. It would be--so--nice--to have one more sweet cousin."

Now she was feeling drowsy. Bly was right--that cloud over the moon _did_ look like a witch--or a great, pale bird. Oh, how she loved this house! How glad she was that she was here. 

"I love my little house at home," was Cecilia's last thought before she fell asleep. "But I think--I'd prefer--to never leave _here_."

* * * 

A/N: Hope you liked this chapter! Thanks for all of the reviews. Faerie5, PLEEEEEEEEEEASE update your story soon. Sitara, I hope this clears things up for you, at least a little about what's wrong with Una, and I love Shirley as much as you do, I think. I'm not sure yet how much I want to reveal to Cecilia about Una's love for Walter, because I kind of want it to be in the past and stay there. I don't know, though. I wrote another fanfic about how Una and Shirley fell in love that explains what Rilla felt about Shirley and Una's marriageit's called The Way of the World and is posted a few pages back. And Miri, all will be revealed about Joy, and Leslie is Carl Meredith and Persis Ford's daughter, who lives near Cecilia in Montreal. 

Stella Maynard, the other poems I quoted in the first chapters were Ozymandius, by Percy Bysshe Shelley, and "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud," by Wordsworth. They're two of my favorites and I knew they would be two of Blythe's as well. 

And last but most definitely not least, thank you, Terreis, for the complements. If you haven't read her storiesyou should!


	6. The Magic is Gone

Uncle Jem and Aunt Faith went to Green Gables for a week in August, and took their brood with them. Uncle Jem had so many pleasant memories of being a boy and visiting Aunt Marilla there and went back every year. He called it his annual pilgrimage. "There's no place sweeter on earth than Green Gables," he always said. And Cecilia was to go with them!

She'd been to Green Gables only a few times in her life and was a-flutter with excitement over this visit. And it would be heaven--pure heaven--to see Bertie every day. Trudy was a wonderful playmate but was lacking in imagination the sort of magic for spinning tales that Bertie had. And they were joined often by Merry, who didn't seem so much like a big girl at Green Gables, but one of _them_.

They had a wonderful time. The girls spent their days tramping around in the woods, dreaming in the White Way of Delight, and rowing about in the dory on the Lake of Shining Waters. They trysted in Hester Gray's garden and picked violets in Violet Vale. The playhouse in Idlewild was rebuilt and not once, but twice, Uncle Jem had led them on an expedition to Echo Lodge, where they beat on pots and pans and danced and sang to the silvery music of far-off echoes--that laughed and sang back to them. Cecilia was browned by the sun and wind so much so that she looked remarkably like her father. Her black hair even lightened to a sun-streaked, chocolate-y brown.

She'd never looked better or prettier or healthier. She was growing like a weed and though she had always been thin--she took after mother--she found it was harder and harder to zip up her dresses. But Auntie Di was a whiz with a needle and sewed her more--pretty cotton dresses with short sleeves and the most enchanting buttons they found on a string in the garret. One was even shaped like a cat!

There were _heaps_ of cats at Green Gables, a whole tribe of them descended from some barn-cat of long ago. When Cecilia saw them playing in the fields, she remembered a verse from the Bible, about the descendents of Abraham. That barn cat's own decendents were "more numerous than the stars in the sky."

Oh, and Cecilia and Bertie were reading the Bible, all the way through! They were only to Exodus, though. But consequently, they decided to name all of the cats after Bible characters, thumbing through Chonicles to find the best names. Cecilia's favorite was Judah, a gray cat with a face like a pansy. Bertie's especial cat was Nehemiah, and Teddy called his Jehosophat, because of his tendency to jump high into the air and pounce on things unseen.

"I do like a cat," said Cecilia one dim afternoon in the hayloft, where they were surrounded by those aforementioned animals, who were leaping at dust-motes swirling around in the light that came through the slates. "I feel like I can_ learn_ something from a cat."

"I'm a dog person myself," Teddy said, twirling a stalk of hay for Jehosophat to pounce on. "Besides, what can you learn from a cat? Cats are lazy--and they never come when you call them."

Cecilia sighed. It was at times like these she missed Blythe the most. She wished he could have come to Green Gables, too--but Aunt Di said that seven children were enough, even for four adults to wrangle them. Blythe would have known what she meant. Cecilia lay back and composed a letter in her head--not to Father. Somehow, while she was away, at least, he had taken a backseat. The letter was to Blythe.

__

There was a party tonight, Bly. The Pyes threw it at their ancestral home. _Isn't "ancestral home" a lovely phrase? Even though we live so far away from each other--you on the Island, and me in Montreal, we have the same ancestral home and that is Green Gables. When Bertie and Teddy are busy with chores (Auntie Di never lets me lift a hand because I am a guest), I sit in the parlor and look at the old pictures. You know how I love old pictures! I have conversations with all of the people in them. I tell Mrs. Rachel Lynde's photo all the gossip, and to Aunt Marilla I tell all my wrongdoings. I feel as though she would _understand_. There is an old framed portrait of an old man with a white beard--Uncle Matthew. I tell him all about the little things that are going on at Green Gables--I remember Grandmother Blythe saying he loved the place so. There is a snapshot of her, too, and on rainy days I pretend she is my playmate. Wouldn't you have liked to know Grandmother as a girl, Bly?_

I did not_ like the Pyes' house. I have never seen a house I didn't like before, but that is probably because most the people I know live in darling houses. This house was a squat red house--the same color red as Red Apple Farm--but the roof was a brilliant blue. The colors separately would have been pretty, but together they fought horribly with each other. Rebecca Pye is exactly my age, and she showed me around the house with a very _haughty_ air. She was especially fond of their cuckoo clock--on the hour, a moth-eaten little bird pops out and chirps weirdly. It was not one bit as dear as any of the Ingleside clocks. I did not like the Pyes' house, and I did not like the Pyes. Isn't it strange? 'Pie' spelled the usual way is a lovely, round, _hungry_ word, but 'p-y-e' looks sly and smug. Just like the Pyes _are.

__

I wish you had been here tonight. I have a new dress of rosy brown taffeta Aunt Di made me--it is just the shade that you say makes me look like a tea rose. I thought for sure--I hoped--that other people would notice--and that perhaps some of the boys would ask me to dance. But only Andrew Sloan did, and I can't abide his goggly eyes. And he had a runny nose and sniffed and snorted every time he talked to me. It was a terrible sound. Teddy asked me to dance once, but he is sweet on Rebecca Pye--he is!_--and he danced most of the dances with her._

There's a crescent moon over the barn tonight and it's carrying good thoughts from me to you, to tip down into your dreams. If you have any dreams, write them in your dream book so that we can talk them over when I get back. I had the most fantastic one last night--I was in a jungle--and about to get eaten by a snake! I ran and ran and the snake snapped along behind me--but instead of being scared, I woke up laughing. It's impossible to have a nightmare at Green Gables, I think. This house is such a happy place. It's as if every voice that ever laughed and every happy soul that ever passed this way is still--here--_somehow_. _Oh, Blythe! I think some of your poetry is rubbing off on me._

The two weeks passed in a blur, and then suddenly it was time to go back to Ingleside. Cecilia packed up the little room she shared with Bertie with a heavy heart--she loved Ingleside, but it was such a treat to spend time at Green Gables!

"There is something--mournful--about the end of a journey," she said pitifully to Bertie. "No matter how nice the home you are going back to is."

Bertie just nodded her eyes and nose a watery pink that clashed with her hair. There was a dearth of female playmates in Avonlea at that time. It wasn't fair that the Ingleside folk got to have Cecilia!

There were tearful goodbyes all around and Cecilia's own eyes were filled as she piled into Uncle Jem's car and drove back toward home. But that sadness soon disappated. She did miss Trudy, and Grandmother and Grandfather--and Blythe! And dear Red Apple Farm. She dropped her valise at the manse and let Aunt Nan kiss her.

"Bly and Joy are out somewhere. I don't know where--" But Cecilia had already flown out and down the path. She knew where Bly was, at least.

Someone had put flowers in the urns on the porch of Red Apple Farm. _Not_ lovely, merry crimson geraniums like they had planned, but stiff pink-and-yellow zinnias. Cecilia hated zinnias. There were no poetry in zinnias. Still, the little house looked as dear to her as ever.

"Red Apple Farm, I'm home!" she cried, bursting through the door.

There was no one there, though the ruins of a Monopoly game were scattered across the hearth. Cecilia heard voices in the back room--she ran toward them--and--

Stopped, her rosebud mouth opening in surprise. Perched at _her_ lovely dining room table, eating off of _her_ china plates, was a jaunty, happy Bly--and Joy. Joy looked right at home in the little house--as if she had been born and raised there.

"What--is--_she--_doing here?" said Cecilia in a dangerous voice. Her black eyes looked like the sky at midnight she was so mad, and a hot flush of anger came to her cheeks. She really looked so well after her stay at Green Gables--and the anger made her look even more piquant. The truth was that Blythe had been so lonely without Cecilia--Trudy had been laid up with a summer cold--that he hadn't been able to resist bringing Joy to the house. And Joy might have told Cecilia so, except that she looked so _pretty_ just then, all crimson and velvety black. So instead, Joy said,

" It's a very--_sweet_--house, Cecilia."

Joy made the word sweet sound so terrible that Cecilia wanted to cover her ears. Her look said archly, "Do you think Blythe would keep secrets from _me_?" Oh, Cecilia would not--she would _not_--deign to reply to Joyce. Instead she turned her fury on Blythe.

"Judas!" she cried. "Traitor! You swore you wouldn't tell--it was _our_ secret! Oh, Blythe! You have _betrayed_ me."

She looked like an Antigone, facing him, her little fists balled up into hard knots. Blythe felt something like an arrow pierce his heart--he hadn't meant to be bad--he _did_ love Joy. She wasn't so bad when you got to know her--not a bit proud, really. He didn't know why she had taken against Cecilia. They were--both--such sweet girls. He hadn't seen any harm in it, and Joy had fallen as much in love with the little house as Cecilia and he himself were. He'd thought it would be a marvelous surprise, and a way for the two girls he loved to play together in harmony. But looking at Cecilia's stricken face now, Blythe knew that he had made a mistake, and felt ashamed.

"I'm sorry--" he began, but Cecilia stopped him with a harsh sound in her throat. Something between a sob and a cry. She fled through the house, gathering all of the little treasures she had brought there, and then left the two of them behind in it. She left the little house behind _forever_, and went to Rainbow Valley and sobbed.

"I shall never go back there," she wept, scattering her belongings on the grass. "It _was_ the dearest house--made even dearer that it was a secret between me and Trudy and _Bly_. Now that Joy knows about it--the magic's gone out of it somehow."

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! Stormtrooper-Shrink, I'm glad you decided to delurk. I hope you read some of my other stories, too! Please? And there will be more about Una later on. Miri, yes, in the other family tree Joy and Bly had a little sister, Diana, but it was too confusing to keep them all straight so I edited her out. : )

I'll have another chapter up in the next day or so.


	7. Two Travellers

Early one morning, in the sweet, misty Ingleside dawn, two visitors arrived at the sleeping house. One was a little gray cat, tired, and thin, who pulled himself up the porch steps and then, finally, slept--a contented cat-smile on his face. _This_ was where he wanted to be. His little ribs showed through his matted coat and his paws were sore from the long journey from whence he came--but on the Ingleside verandah he purred like the King of Cats, in the palace of a Pharoah.

He was not discovered until later. The second visitor came first. She bent over Cecilia's bed, laughed, and kissed her, and tickled her awake. Cecilia's blue eyes flew open--the first thing she saw was another laughing pair of blue eyes--hair like ropes of burnished gold--and an apple-blossom, gap-toothed smile.

"Surprise!" the vision cried joyfully.

"_Leslie!" _Cecilia shrieked, throwing her covers off, scarecely believing her eyes. The cousins danced around the room and laughed--laughed until tears were leaking from the corners of their eyes.

"I've been on that train all night," Leslie said, pushing Cecilia back into bed and slipping in beside her. "I see you looking at that other bed--I know you were saving it for me--it is a very nice bed. But I'd rather cuddle up to you, dear one. I miss miss _missed_ you! You smell nice--you look sweeter than ever. But your feet are so cold!"

"I'm sorry!" Cecilia laughed. "Oh, Leslie, I didn't even know you were coming."

"Neither did I, until last week." Leslie yawned and streched, her shining, _living_ hair spreading over the pillow like a fan. "Mother and Father are going to a conference in Guelph and they're taking Kent with them, but Uncle Shirley thought it might be nice for me to come and visit _you_. He said you'd been doing well but sounded a bit _down_ in your letters. What's wrong, Sis?"

"Oh--nothing--_everything_." Cecilia sighed--her lip trembled--she laughed. "I'll tell you about it all--when I get it straightened in my own mind. Leslie, how _is _Father? And Mother, have you heard anything about Mother? And the house--and my cat--?"

"Your Dad's fine." Leslie snuggled up to Cecilia under the blankets. "My, I'm toasty warm! And I haven't seen Auntie Una--" Leslie wisely broke off there and did not say what she had heard her parents saying in low voices about Auntie Una from her bedroom one night. She did not want to make the sparkly, hopeful look go out of her cousin's eyes. "Your cat's fatter than ever--Mrs. Perkins next door is watching him this week. Speaking of cats, there's a little gray one out on the verandah right now. He doesn't look like he _belongs_ to Ingleside. I hissed at him when I came up--Grandfather Meredith picked me up at the station and drove me straight here. But that cat won't budge. He yowled at me and wrapped himself around my legs--he wanted to come in but I shook him off. I think he would have bowled past me if I could have gotten the door open--but it was locked. When did Ingleside folk start locking their doors?"

"How did you get in?" Cecilia asked timidly. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

"I climbed up the trellis," said Leslie with a cheeky grin. "I only stepped on some of the flowers, too--I was careful. Anyway, is that cat yours? The little gray cat? If not, I'm going to take him over to the manse--Grandmother and Grandfather Meredith don't have _any_ cats and that house could use one."

"A gray cat, you said?" Cecilia asked pensively. "No, it isn't mine--all of the Ingleside cats are calicoes."

"No, this was a gray cat, all right," said Leslie. "He was awful dirty--and he had white feet and a white spot by his nose. And one white ear--Cecilia? Where are you going?"

"It's Judah!" Cecilia cried as she floated down the hall like a white spectre. "It _is_ my cat--oh, it's my Green Gables cat! He must have followed us here--you missed me, didn't you sweetums? I hated to leave you behind--and now you're here and I'll never let you go!" She held the little cat near her chest and never was there a more contented cat in the world than Judah at that moment.

Grandmother and Grandfather Blythe opened their eyes wide when they came down for breakfast to see the two girls awake and eating breakfast, the little cat lapping up milk from a saucer on the table between them.

"Leslie!" Grandmother Blythe said. "Where on earth did you come from?"

Grandfather Blythe said, "Where did that _cat_ come from?"

"I came from Montreal," said Leslie impishly.

"The cat came from Avonlea," said Cecilia. "He _walked_ the whole way here--his pads are all bruised and sore--oh, can't he stay, Grandfather? Please?"

"You--have--a cat already," Grandfather said, bemused. "I got you one for your birthday."

"And I love him, Grandfather--but that cat is a wild cat. He doesn't like being inside and doesn't like cuddling. Some cats aren't built that way--but Judah _is_. Here, stroke him--he's the sweetest cat that ever meowed. See, Grandfather?"

Cecilia deposited the little ball of gray fluff into Grandfather Blythe's hand and the kitten pressed its pink nose to the doctor's neck and closed its eyes in happiness. Gilbert Blythe remembered once how he had said that the most contented sound in the world was a cat's purr--and how could he say no to the pleading little blue-eyed face of his granddaughter--his sweetest granddaughter.

"It can stay," he laughed, ruffling her hair.

"What about me, Uncle Gil, Aunt Anne?" Leslie said through a mouthful of cereal. "Can I stay, too? At least until I finish breakfast?"

"Leslie," said Grandmother Blythe with a grin, petting the purring cat's ears. "You can stay as long as you like."

Everyday was a rainbow with Leslie there. She haunted the manse and Ingleside like a small, cheerful imp. Early each morning, before anyone else was up, she stood under the window and called to Cecilia in a loud, unearthly voice--or worse, tried to climb the trellis--until Grandmother Blythe noticed her flattened roses and gave Leslie her very own key so she could come in through the door like a normal person.

All of the cousins loved the laughing, rollicking Leslie. Hannah and Nancy didn't know what to make of her yodels and war-whoops and stared at her, mesmerized--but without getting too close. She could climb higher and run faster than any of the boys--and Owen and Jake were proud of her--if not a little jealous. Girls shouldn't be able to _do _those things! But Leslie was not all noise and fury--she could sit still for hours while Merry brushed and plaited her hair, and was careful and meticulous when helping Gil and Walter build models.

Even Joy was nice to Leslie! Cecilia had expected them to clash--there was no doubt that Leslie was very pretty--prettier even than Joy, with her hair of burnished gold and fine, porcelain features. Joyce did not like being outclassed, but she didn't seem to view Leslie as a threat. Perhaps it was because Leslie "had no use" for Blythe. This pronouncement made Cecilia gasp in consternation.

"But--Leslie--Bly is so _good_."

"I know," said Leslie. "That's why I don't like him. He's _too_ good. There's no _tang_ in him. I like boys to be wild and bad--they can. They don't have to sit around being sweet all day. When I marry, I'm going to marry a man who is dashing and _bad_."

In years to come, when Cecilia was to meet Leslie's rougish fiance, who was every bit as dashing as either of them could home, she would remember those words. But right now, her heart fell.

"But," Cecilia said desperately, wanting her two favorite cousins to get along. "Bly's going to be a poet, Leslie. He has the most wonderful way of putting words together."

"He's always sitting around, mooning at trees and sunsets," Leslie sniffed. "He's so busy _writing _about them that he doesn't have time to enjoy them. You can't see much of a sunset with your head in a book."

After more protestrations and more of Leslie's rebuttals, Cecilia gave up. Leslie and Blythe were simply not of the same kindred. Besides, Cecilia hadn't spoken to Blythe at all since that day she found Joy in Red Apple Farm. She turned her head icily away when he spoke to her and the sorry look in Bly's eyes made her heart ache--even so, she stood stuanchly, steadily firm. But no one would no how that look tortured her when she was lying in her little narrow bed each night.

But even though Joy _liked_ Leslie, Leslie did _not_ like Joy. "My mother doesn't need to wear makeup," she said when Joy offered to paint her face with some make-up from Aunt Nan's dressing table.

"Well, my mother doesn't _need _to," said Joy. "She just _likes_ to."

Leslie waved her hand dismissively.

"Your mother isn't a whit prettier than mine, Leslie West Meredith!" said Joy hotly, finally, seeing Leslie wouldn't give in.

To which Leslie said, airily, "My, you're awful excitable. That must be the Blythe in you. Fords and Merediths don't get all bent out of shape over little, tiny things!"

After Joy had stomped off, Leslie bent double with laughter.

"Oh, why would you tease her like that?" said Cecilia, pleased that Leslie could do what she couldn't but torn because she knew it was wrong.

"I tease her because I can," Leslie stretched out on the green grass of Rainbow Valley--two pale, twin rainbows were stretched over head, a reminder of a recent summer rainstorm and why Rainbow Valley had its name. "She's so prim--all prunes and prisms--and she takes my ribbing so seriously. And besides." Leslie rolled so that her bright blue eyes pierced Cecilia's dark, mysterious ones. "I can tell that she doesn't like you. And I don't like _anyone_ who doesn't like you."

"Why--do you--think she doesn't like me?"

"I dunno," said Leslie pensively, scrunching her face. "Probably because you're the best. And your grandmom and pop sure pay a lot of attention to you. Likely she's jealous."

"Yes," said Cecilia, disappointed. Leslie was usually so much more astute.

"But there's hope for you yet," Leslie said comfortingly. "Remember how I didn't like Lynnie Perkins at home for ever so long? And then, all of a sudden, one day, I liked her? Cheer up, Cee. It could happen to you."

Cecilia showed Leslie Red Apple Farm, of course--but she stood firm to her promise. They didn't go inside.

"It's wonderful," Leslie breathed. "They're heaps of trees--I love trees. That birch looks like a good climbing tree. Let's go in!"

"We can't," Cecilia said dully. "It's--locked."

Her heart ached to climb up the drainpipe and slip through the skylight--but she would _not_ give Joy the satisfaction. Or Blythe! What had he been thinking, bringing his sister here?

"Well, I bet there's all sorts of neat things in the attic," Leslie said mournfully, with a backward glance.

Cecilia might not have been the poet Blythe was, but she had a way with words, that she used to describe the house in great detail to Leslie. One she had given her cousin the basic details of how it was at the present time, the girls spent hours talking about how they would do it up if it was theirs. A darling slate roof--new red plantation shutters--a tile floor in the kitchen. Leslie, who was good with her pencils, drew elaborate sketches of the moldings and windows they would install. The girls made a pact that when they were old--about thirty or so--and not married, they would buy the house and live there together.

"Oh, I hope we do it!" said Leslie, coloring a little peaked gable over the new slate roof.

"Me--too," said Cecilia doubtfully. It would be nice to live with Leslie always--but she _would_ like to be married--someday. She wanted a husband--and dear sweet babies of her own, to coo and sing over. And for some odd reason, she couldn't picture her dream man, who would inhabit the house with her, but Blythe persisted in hanging around, helping her sweep the hearth and lay heart-of-pine floors.

Cecilia had saved two of the things from the house and she showed them to Leslie one rainy day in the little room they were sharing--Grandmother and Grandfather Meredith couldn't keep Leslie cooped up in the manse every night. She snuck out--it was better just to let her go.

"Just an old book and a few pieces of yellow paper," said Leslie disappointedly.

"Read them," succinctly said Cecilia.

Leslie did--and read the name of the author and the addressee--and got into the mystery. "Why would Auntie Una have Aunt Rilla's letter?" she wondered. "Do you think she stole it?"

"No!" Cecilia cried. "Mother _wouldn't_ steal. Probably Aunt Rilla gave it to her. But I wonder why she would do _that_. If it was Uncle Walter's last lettershe'd want to keep it," Leslie finished. "Let's go and ask her."

"Leslie--no!" Cecilia cried, but it was too late. Leslie had taken the bit of paper and flown down to the parlor, where Aunt Rilla was sewing with Grandmother and Aunt Nan.

"What's this?" she asked cheerfully, presenting the letter to Aunt Rilla. Cecilia hovered behind.

"I don't know, you monkey," Auntie Rilla laughed, interrupting her conversation with the other women. "Let's see."

She read for a bit, and then her face went slack. Quietly she said, "Walter," and laughed--softly and horribly--and folded the letter, handing it back to Leslie. Her eyes were suspiciously, suddenly pink.

"Well?" said Leslie, her own eyes bright and curious.

Grandmother got up to get tea, and Aunt Nan turned back to her embroidery, humming a sad little song under her breath. "Put this back where you found it," was all that Auntie Rilla said, with regards to the letter, and that was the end of that.


	8. Along the Shore

The last days of summer are known as the Dog Days--the hottest, muggiest, most moquito-ridden days of the whole year. The whole world seems tired and parched and dusty--one wonders how the sun is able to muster the energy to rise and set. Cecilia and Leslie had enjoyed their time together for many weeks--but on these last days that were the dregs of summer, both girls found themselves overcome by a terrible ennuie. Although they would not have called it that at the time. They were just restless. Every game had been played a thousand times before, and every place had been visited until it was no longer new and exciting. They lay on the windowseat in the House of Dreams parlor day in and day out. It was cool there, looking out on the little garden. They would run and out dip their heads in the little brook when they got too hot and then run back inside before the gnats bit at them. Aunt Rilla found them there--sighing and heaving their shoulders, dripping water all over her new rugs and cushions.

"You'd think with ten children, five houses, and a whole world of wonderful things, you children would find something to _do_!" she said, shooing them out of her parlor. The girls could not find anything to do. They went to Ingleside, but Grandmother and Grandfather had gone to town to visit friends that day. They trudged up the hill to see Aunt Faith, but as usual her house was too hot --and too full of people. Finally they meandered up the lane toward the manse, tired and dusty, hoping Grandma Meredith would have some lemonade to give to them.

"We could go to Red Apple Farm," Leslie said. "There are shade trees in the back--I bet it's cool on the sun porch. If _you_ weren't so stubborn." She said the last part with a scowl and Cecilia snapped back, before she knew what she was doing,

"Oh, shut your head!"

The girls stared at each other; they had never exchanged even mildly cross words ever before.

Grandma Rosemary was on the telephone with the grocer, placing an order. They did not want to bother her. Grandpa Meredith was sleeping on the sofa with a newspaper over his face, so that when he breathed the pages fluttered. Dejected, the girls tiptoed out.

"There are--so many--things I want to do," Leslie panted as they trudged up the road away from the manse. "if only it weren't so hot--I might have the energy to do them. But this hot spell's supposed to last until the end of next week--and I go home then. I suppose you'll be going home by then, too. School starts in only three weeks--I can't believe how the summer's flown by!"

"Actually," Cecilia's lip quivered, but only just so, "I'm going to be going to school here, Leslie. At least for the first part of the year. Even though Mother is getting better, Grandmother and Grandfather Blythe can't bear to part with me yet. They begged Father to let me stay on, and reluctantly, he said yes."

Leslie looked at Cecilia and opened her mouth. Then closed it, and looked away. She knew why Cecilia was staying on, or she thought she did, and she'd be willing to put her allowance on the fact that poor Auntie Una wasn't getting _better_.

"I'll miss you, Cee," she said then. "I wish I could stay with you, too. It won't be the same at school without you."

"Oh well, it won't be forever!" said Cecilia brightly, but her tone was contradicted by the little frown between her eyes. It was a secret fear of Cecilia's that it _would_ end up being forever. It happened to some people. Jennie Brooke had been a girl in Cecilia's grade until her mother had fallen ill. Jennie was sent to live with relatives in Vancouver--only temporarily, everyone had thought. But then Jennie's mother had died and it had become permanent. But that was silly, Cecilia reminded herself. Mother wasn't dying. And even--if anything did happen to her--surely Father would want her back? But oh, nothing would happen to Mother! It was too horrible to think about. Nothin _could_.

Leslie seemed to discern what Cecilia was thinking without any words passing between them, and she took her cousin's hand. They girls went on in silence, not sure of where they were headed, and might have continued silently on like that until the reached the end of the road, if there hadn't been a honk and a sound of a motor suddenly behind them.

"Hey, chickies! Don't you two look dusty and down?"

"Uncle Bruce!" Leslie flounced to him for a kiss. "No one told me you were home for the summer!"

"I thought I'd drive to the shore," Uncle Bruce said. "Down by the Bay Shore, that's where the best beaches are. You kididoes look like you could use some cheering up---you want to come with?"

"Oh yes!" the girls clambered into Uncle Bruce's coupe, squeezing together on the other seat. They had their swimsuits on under their summer dresses, in case they had wanted a swim in the murky Glen Pond, but a trip to the shore was even better.

It was Uncle Bruce's idea to make it a picnic. They stopped off at Carter Flag's store for sandwiches and then went across to the soda shoppe for a pint of ice cream. _Three _separate pints, actually. Since Cecilia wanted strawberry, and Leslie vanilla, and Uncle Bruce pistachio. "This won't keep in the cooler," Uncle Bruce said in mock dismay. "We'll have to eat it on the way down, I suppose."

"Hurrah!" cried Cecilia and Leslie.

They met Joy and Merry coming in to the soda shoppe as they were leaving. "We're going to the beach!" Leslie cried excitedly. "We're having a picnic!"

"That sounds lovely," said Merry, and went to grab a booth before they were all taken. "I hope you'll have a good time!"

But Joy stayed behind, her lovely eyes narrowed.

"How come _they_ get to go?" she asked Uncle Bruce. "I'd quite like a drive to the shore, too."

"Sorry, honey," Uncle Bruce said. "My car's only a two-seater, and after I've packed in these two they're won't be any room left over. Next time."

Truth be told, he might have fit another body in the car, if one of the girls was willing to sit in the back with the cooler. But there was something in Joy's eyes he didn't like. She seemed to feel like she was entitled--and she only wanted to go because she hadn't been asked. Whereas Leslie and Cecilia were pink with genuine delight. And Joy had a whole town of friends who were willing to take her out and show her a good time while these two wandered around like little lost ghosts. No, he'd much rather spend the afternoon with these two monkeys. Especially, Cecilia, who looked as sweet as pie with her face flushed like that. As sweet as Una had ever looked---but today was a holiday, of sorts. He wouldn't think of that.

The girls had already built a town out of shells, swam until their fingers and toes were blue, and buried Uncle Bruce up to his neck in the sand before the sun was at the highest point in the sky. As it began its descent, the lazy part of the afternoon began.

Uncle Bruce was reading from a thick book under their umbrella. Next to him, Leslie was asleep on the blanket. She slept as hard and thoroughly as she played---even the sounds of the crashing surf and of the waves couldn't wake her up. Uncle Bruce absentmindedly stroked her copper hair as she slumbered.

"I wonder if she's dreaming we're at the beach?" Cecilia wondered as Leslie's eyes fluttered.

"Probably," Uncle Bruce smiled. "Why don't you have quick nap, too? You're looking kind of tired."

"Oh I'm not!" Cecilia shook her head. "I'm just--_bursting_--with energy, Uncle Bruce. I think I'd rather take a walk."

She didn't expect for Uncle Bruce to let her go off by herself. Even though she _was_ a big girl of fourteen, the other aunts and uncles treated her like a baby. But Uncle Bruce wasn't like the other grownups--he could remember what it was like to be fourteen himself.

"Sure," he said. "Don't go in the water unless there are other people around. And take your hat--if I bring you back with your face burned, Faith will skin _me_ alive."

Cecilia stopped at one of the carts that lined the boardwalk and bought an ice cream---peppermint, to match her read and white striped bathing suit. When she'd shown it to Leslie last year, the girls had laughed because it made Cecilia look like the spitting image of a barber pole, all skinny and white and red. But this year--well, this year she didn't look like a barber pole anymore. Instead the stripes accented the curves of her figure that were just beginning to be apparent. Her skin wasn't pasty white anymore--after almost an entire summer out in the sun she'd gotten to be as brown as a toasted marshmallow. Her thick black hair was in two short little braids under the white canvas hat that Uncle Bruce had made her wear. She made a pretty picture, and many people appreciated her lithe figure against the backdrop of waves. Many of them were boys her age, and Cecilia blushed and dug her toes in the sand. She had never--had people--notice _her_ before. There were many shouted invitations for her to join in their games, or for her to let them buy her a soda. Cecilia blushed and shook her head no shyly.

All the way down the beach, was a lone figure in swim trunks flying a kite. There was no one else around him and the bright, frenzied activity of the beach did not seem to touch him. He had a thatch of sandy hair and broad shoulders and was making the kite do the most fantastic dips and swoops. Cecilia clapped her hands with delight as she watched, and, without thinking, waved. The boy did not wave back, but turned his back on her and kept the bright paper kite dipping and swooping.

Cecilia made her way back to the beach umbrella, her cheeks crimson. Every so often she turned and saw the kite still flying. Why hadn't that boy waved back when she did? He was the only one who hadn't, on the whole stretch of the beach. She wished he'd waved. Cecilia played the scene a dozen times in her mind. Her wave---and then his turn away.

Thank you all so much for the reviews! Adrienne, you email meant so much to me! I am thinking about writing another Cecilia story after this one, and possibly one about Bertie, Di's daughter. We'll see how they all turn out. Marzoog, glad you're enjoying it, too. You have to update soon, though, because I need to read more of your work. Miri and Terreis, glad you guys liked Leslie. I like her too. I didn't plan for her to be so impetuous, but I thought of how Leslie West might have acted if her life hadn't been so tragic for so long. Plus, Persis Ford is her mother, and in _Anne of Ingleside_, Persis seems like a little firebrand. Plus, Carl, her father, is rather impish too.

I'll try to update again soon. Please forgive me for leaving the Juliet story alone for so long--I've hit a real writer's block for that one.

-Ruby aka Cathy


	9. The Boy on the Beach

"What are you doing, sweetums?" Grandmother Blythe had come to set a pie made by Nan--Auntie Nan was famous for her apple pies--on the table in the Ingleside kitchen, and found it covered with pieces of newsprint and sticks and bits of string. Presiding over the mess was a very flustered Cecilia, whose fingers with sticky with glue.

"I'm making a kite," Cecilia said, not looking up from her work. "Or at least I'm _trying_ to. Uncle Bruce will be back from his visit to Charlottetown on Thursday--in time for us to go to the shore again. Oh, Grandmother, isn't a kite a marvelous thing? When you fly it, you can feel like part of your _self_ is up there, soaring about in the clouds."

The visits to the shore had become a regular thing. They went at least once a week, just Uncle Bruce and Leslie and since Leslie had gone, sometimes Trudy, who was just over her summer cold. Joy had not given up her fight to be included, but Uncle Bruce seemed to really _see_ into Cecilia's soul and know that there was some rift there between her and Joyce. But he never asked about it, and he never made remarks about what a pity it was that the girls didn't get along, like the other aunts and uncles. He seemed to know that some people, though they were connected by blood, were not of the same kindred.

Cecilia had benefited from those trips. The warm sun and sound of the waves was healing to her little hurt soul. She had mastered all sorts of different strokes-- the backstroke, the side crawl, and the butterfly, and the repeated exercise had made the muscles in her arms and shoulders long and lean. That, along with the caramel color of her sun-bronzed skin and the dear little freckles that popped out over her nose, made Grandmother Blythe reflect that perhaps she really _was_ the beauty of the family-- she did not have the overblown prettiness of Joyce or the sweet, apple-checked ruddy good looks of Merry and Trudy, but there was something dark and velvety and haunting about her face.

"I'm going to get you a red kerchief and some gold-earrings and you'll look just like a gypsy child," Grandmother Blythe laughed. "Darling, why don't you run down to the House of Dreams and see if Uncle Ken is around? He's not a whiz at putting things together like your own father is, but he'll do in a pinch. Have a piece of apple pie, first, darling-- why, she's already gone!" It was true-- Cecilia had flown out the door and down the lane before the words were hardly out of Grandmother's mouth. That fine woman turned her eyes to the wake of chaos on the table and she shook her graying head in mock dismay.

Anne Blythe pressed her lips together and bit her tongue gently to keep from saying something truly grandmother-ish about all this fuss over a kite. She knew that when you are fourteen the most unexpected things can have a secret importance, known only to your own heart. She would not clear away the mess. Instead, she took a stack of plates and napkins out to the verandah and started setting the little round table. It would be a nice change, to eat under the shade of the birches and to drink in the blue sea that was shining in the distance.

By the time Uncle Bruce drove up the Ingleside drive, his car already loaded with cold drinks and the beach umbrella, Cecilia had her kite. It was not a colorful, beautiful kite like she had wanted, but Uncle Ken had assured her that it would fly much better if it was shaped _this_ way. Cecilia had colored it with crayons, but the bright colors could not dull the starkness of the newsprint. Uncle Bruce's face creased in a grin--which he quickly hid-- when he saw her coming down the walk with the contraption carefully under her arm.

"Where is Trudy?" asked Cecilia, after kissing him, settling the kite gingerly on her lap.

"She's being punished," said Uncle Bruce gravely. "Apparently she was impertinent at dinner time. Shall we go pick up Merry? Or Nelly Douglas, or Cathy?"

"No," said Cecilia absent-mindedly. "Let's just go the two of us today."

So Trudy had been impertinent _again_. As the days narrowed between Trudy and her own fourteenth birthday, she and Aunt Rilla seemed to be always at odds with each other. Cecilia had heard that it was often like that-- girls fought with their mothers during their teenage years. It was a way of showing independence. Nelly Douglas and Mary Vance had terrible rows that could be heard two blocks away! But Cecilia hadn't expected such behavior of a Ford, of _Ingleside_.

"I know if Mother was here, we wouldn't be fighting," she thought, fighting the lump in her throat. "Not _ever_." Uncle Bruce again seemed to discern what she was thinking, and wisely left her alone to her thoughts instead of trying to pull her out of them.

They drove in silence, Cecilia staring out the window unseeing, until they passed the Four Winds Light. "Oh, wait!" Cecilia suddenly cried. "Aren't we going to the Bay Shore?"

"I thought this would be a nice change," Uncle Bruce said, with a twinkle in his eye.

"Oh, no, Uncle Bruce," Cecilia began. "You see--I thought-- but we _have_ to go to the Bay Shore!"

"Oh really?" said Uncle Bruce in a droll tone.

"Yes!" Cecilia almost shouted, and then tried to compose herself. "What I mean is, the current is much gentler at the Bay Shore than in Four Winds. I had hoped to practice my strokes today. And you know what a poor swimmer I am."

She said all this with her eyes downcast so she would not see the grin on Uncle Bruce's face. They both knew Cecilia was a champion swimmer.

"Well," said Uncle Bruce gravely. "If we must, we must." He turned the car onto the Shore road and Cecilia heaved a sigh of relief. Bruce turned on the radio and started singing along so that Cecilia would not see his wild desire to laugh. The poor dearie! And that monstrous kite! Her face was like a book-- anyone could see why the Bay Shore was where she wanted to go.

The boy with the kite had been there every day. Cecilia wondered if he had any parents? How was he able to get away so often? Where had he gotten _his_ kite? He certainly hadn't made it-- if he had, he was a much better craftsman than her and Uncle Ken. She had taken to going on long walks every time she saw his bright beacon flying, under the pretense that it was good for digestion. When she neared the boy on the dunes she pretended to be looking for shells, and though there were beautiful shells there, like tiny unicorn horns, she never saw them. She was too busy watching the colored kite swirl and dip, and the boy's broad, bronzed back as he flew it.

Once she had gotten close enough to see the melancholy look on his face.

He never spoke to her, though she willed him to. But perhaps he thought they had nothing in common? That was why she had made her own kite. So he would see. At least, Cecilia thought that was how it was done. It struck her that Mother really should be here to advise her on such matters. She could ask Grandmother, and Aunties Rilla or Nan, but really, it was a Mother's job_. _For the first time, a flare of anger against her Mother welled in her heart, though she quickly quashed it.

As she drew near to the dunes now, she felt her cheeks flush. It wasn't that the sun was beating down on them--she had forgotten her hat. It was something else. Setting herself up a short distance from the boy, she unfurled her own kite-string and ran about a bit, getting it off the ground.

How laughable her own kite looked in comparison to his! She cringed; what if he laughed at her?

The boy had noticed her, though, and he wasn't laughing--only smiling a little. He met her eyes across the dunes and, like a challenge, raised his own kite even higher.

Cecilia raised hers and smiled back triumphantly. Uncle Ken had been right about the shape.

The boy made his kite swoop down to ward the ocean, and then back up again.

Cecilia did the same-- even though she hadn't the faintest idea how to do it or how she did it, and laughed aloud. It was like they were playing a game, without even speaking. They stayed that way for a while, matching each other action for action, every swoop and dip.

Until the boy did some complicated maneuver where the kite twirled three times overhead, and then dipped almost to the sand, before pulling it up again. Cecilia lamely attempted to do the same--she managed the three twirls and then a dip-- and the kite came down with a thump and a whack on her head that made her sit down suddenly in the sand, dazed. For a moment the world spun around her, and when it righted itself, he was at her side.

"That's some bump!" he said. "I thought you were down for the count. Sit here a moment-- that's it, just to make sure you aren't hurt."

"You might not have done something so complicated when you knew I couldn't match it," said Cecilia grumpily, forgetting all the words she had rehearsed saying to him at their first encounter.

"_I_ didn't know," the boy said, laughing now. "For all I knew, you might have been a kite aficionado."

"Or virtuoso," he added skeptically, when he saw her newsprint bird.

His name was Sid Gardiner. He was visiting relatives at the Bay Shore, and he said he would teach Cecilia to do what he had done with the kite. But first she needed a good one--her little homemade kite had been ruined when it fell from the sky. Sid picked on from the store--a bright, royal blue one that he knew was perfect when he saw it. It was the exact same color as her eyes.

Cecilia had never found it so easy to talk to anyone, outside of her own family. She began begging Uncle Bruce to take her to the beach more and more, until it was an almost daily trip. After swimming halfheartedly for a while, she waited until Uncle Bruce was immersed in his book before setting off down the beach to meet Sid. They would stand very close to each other, arms and legs akimbo, flying their kites but not even noticing the fantastic patterns they made against the bright blue sky. They were too busy watching each other-- if they were not careful their strings got tangled, and the kites crashed to the ground. But they did not notice that either.

Then they would sit and talk while straightening the knots in the strings. They were very much alike, Cecilia found. It was so easy to tell Sid everything-- even about Mother--even about Susan. It was easy to tell him. For Sid had lost someone, too.

"Her name was Bets," he said one day, staring out at the blazing blue water. "Bets Wilcox." He told her how pretty Bets had been, and how sweet, and kind, and good, and Cecilia felt inexplicably a pang of jealousy for the dead girl, while at the same time wishing she were not dead. For if Sid had loved her so much, surely Cecilia would, too, since she and Sid were so obviously alike.

He had loved her--that much was evident.

" Even though she was my sister Pat's friend, mostly," he explained. "But when we were together--it was as if we didn't even need to talk, because we already knew what the other was thinking. You know?"

"Yes," said Cecilia, thinking of Little Susan and the bond they had shared. "I know."

"Pat's torn up with grief," Sid said matter-of-factly, busying himself with his string so that Cecilia would not see that his eyes had gone pink. "So they shipped us off to the Bay Shore Aunts for the summer. We normally live at Silver Bush--it's not so far from Ingleside."

They smiled at each other at that-- the fact that they would be able to see each other almost whenever they wanted, even when this magical summer ended.

"Have you ever loved anyone?" Sid asked one day. Cecilia, who would have minded anyone else posing that question to her, did not mind his asking.

"My mother--and father--"

"No," Sid said. "Not like _that_. Have you ever felt that there was someone who understood you completely, perfectly?"

"No one except--" Cecilia had been about to say _except Blythe_. But somehow Blythe did not seem to matter so much now. Leslie had been right--he was always off mooning over something, instead of _doing_. That was part of the reason she liked Sid so much. He was a great person for doing things. And Blythe had always been so focused on-- on himself. Yes, he had written her poetry-- but he always read it aloud so that everyone could tell him how wonderful _he_ was.

"No," she amended herself. "I haven't. But--" She and Sid exchanged a shy look. "I think I _could_."

It might have been the end of summer, but when Cecilia's hand crept across the sand to Sid's own the two little unhappy souls felt that it was spring in their hearts.

Thanks for the reviews!

Una: Yes, Shirley is about 2 years younger than Una, but I didn't think that would really matter.

Emma: The idea is kind of weird, but first cousins are allowed to marry, and are always doing so in LMM books. I don't know about double first cousins and although Blythe and Cecilia marry in one of my Juliet of New Moon fics, they might not in this one. We'll see.

Terreis: I have NO intention of killing Una off. She's my favorite "next generation" LMM character-- I like her better than any of the Blythe girls and I wouldn't want anything to happen to her.

Marzoog: I like Bruce, too. I always felt that he would be an understanding, kind person, after how he was characterized in ROI.

New chapter up soon! Those of you who are writing stories, update! Those of you who arent-- you should!

Ruby aka Cathy


	10. The Nature of Secrets

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Dear Father, Cecilia wrote one blustery September afternoon, staring out the windows at the dripping rain and grateful for the comfort of Judah, who was competing with her pen and paper for space on her lap. She was finding that writing the letter was very hard going-- she was used to writing self-censored letters to Mother, but this was the first time in her life that she didn't tell Father everything.

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There's no Indian summer for us this year, Dad. The last week of August was perfectly wonderful-- we all expected it to never end. But the first of September dawned cool and rainy and it hasn't stopped raining since. That means no more visits to the shore this year. My lovely tan has already faded and I'm getting to be as pale as ever again. Except Joy did_ point out that I seem to be more freckled than usual. Auntie Rilla heard her though and chucked her arm around me and said to Joy, haughtily, that the Blythe girls are prized for their freckles. Aunt Rilla is simply covered in them, and she explained that they were the bane of her existence at my age. Sometimes I really do believe that Aunt Rilla is still my age at heart. We're always chatting together on the sofa at Ingleside in the afternoons and I like talking to her as much as I do Trudy or Leslie or Bertie or Cathy Douglas._

What Cecilia did not write was that she had spent far more of her afternoons away from Ingleside in recent weeks. Sid had not been telling tales when he said that Silver Bush was just a hop, skip and jump away from the Glen. And because he was already sixteen, his father let him use the car. He'd whisked Cecilia over to Silver Bush four times and found it almost as lovely as Ingleside. When she said as much to Sid's sister, Pat, the older girl laughed and said,

"I suppose you think there's no place on earth sweeter than your Ingleside?"

"There _isn't_," Cecilia insisted.

Pat Gardiner's impish, elfin face had dimpled and she said, "Cecilia Blythe, I think we are going to get along just fine. You're by far the nicest one of Sid's girls."

Did Sid have a lot of other girls? For some reason this rankled in Cecilia's heart. And was she even Sid's girl? They had been to the cinemas, and to the soda shoppe on some afternoons, and her heart thrilled when Sid smiled his lopsided smile at her and reached for her hand. But he hadn't tried to kiss her at all. Surely if he liked her as much as she liked him-- if she really and truly was his girl-- he would have tried to kiss her? But of course she couldn't write to Father about all that. She should be able to, but she just couldn't. Cecilia scratched her black head and tried to think of something else to write, to fill up the interminably blank space on her letterhead.

School has started and I'm doing very well, as I'm sure Grandmother has told you. They are all in a tizzy over me winning the History essay. That was after your letter came about Leslie being ill with the croup, and I was so distraught that I just rewrote an essay I did last year for Miss. Branston's world geography class. I was too worried to write a new one. When Mrs. Jane found out that we had already covered this topic last year she looked at me in a funny way and asked me a few more questions, not just about history, but literature and math, too. Then she said that she had to talk a few things over with the rest of the board, but she thought I should move up a grade, since I was so advanced. Grandmother and Grandfather were so proud-- and all of the aunts and uncles, and even Mary Vance. But I shocked them all by refusing. I like my classmates. I like my teachers. I'd much rather stay where I am, and I hope you won't be disappointed at my lack of ambition.

Cecilia had another reason for not wanting to move up. Joy was a year ahead of her. Cecilia could not bear to be in the same classes with Joy. At school Joy was one of the older girls and terribly popular and admired by all. Once the other girls in her clique had found out that she had no liking for her short, slight, quiet cousin, they all had immediately written Cecilia off. But she didn't care.

"If they are the kind of people who would prefer Joyce over me, I don't want to associate with them anyway," she had written in a letter to Leslie, and Leslie had heartily agreed.

She wasn't unhappy, despite not being popular at school. She never had been at home. She had her own group of girls: Trudy, and Cathy and Nell Douglas, and a few others who were all in her grade. Cecilia was popular enough among them. She was such fun once you knew her-- and the best at acting out plays and singing and skating. Though Cecilia wished at times that they would think of her as an Island girl, instead of a stranger from Montreal. She had been born here, after all.

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That reminds me, Dad-- thanks for the lovely new coat! Peacoats haven't come into being the rage here, yet-- only a few girls have them and none of them have a lovely blue velvet one like me. Aunt Rilla's been teaching me to knit and I've made the most adorable cream colored tam to go with it. When I wear it out, with my new patent leather shoes, I feel like the most sophisticated girl alive. I'm sure that I could fit right in if I ever was to visit New York. Please thank Aunt Persis for helping you choose these things for me-- I know you didn't-- you'd still have me in pinafores if you could. You are so good to me, Dad.

That was enough so that the page didn't look so empty. Cecilia signed her name with big, loopy letters and added a row of kisses and the page was quite filled. She had a momentary pang-- she felt guilty for not wanting to write more-- but then was distracted by a whoop from the driveway. Sid had come for her--they were going into town-- she must go.

"I thought we are going into town," Cecilia said to Sid once he had driven in the opposite to the Shore Road.

"I thought we might go to Silver Bush instead," Sid said. "There is something I want to show you. You look so cute in that sweater, Cee-- like a little bluebird. You should always wear something that color, you know."

Cecilia thrilled at his compliments and made a mental note to do just that.

"Well, what is it you want to show me?" she laughed, wriggling in delight.

"Secret," said Sid cryptically and drove on.

They were hustled into the warm Silver Bush kitchen by the wonderful Judy Plum, who made them take a glass of milk to put color in their cheeks and made them take two slices of pie each-- though Cecilia could only finish one and half of the other.

"Sure, and that's the way you can be telling she's a lady," said Judy approvingly. "Never trust a girl with too big an appetate, Siddy. I'm glad to see ye're getting some sense in your age--the Blythes are terrible good women-- and Susan Baker taught the Ingleside girls how to run their kitchens. No doubt they've passed it on to the children. There won't be any waste there, not like with the Binnies. And ye've got the daintiest hands, Cecilia darlint--like Connemara marble. Yes, Sid me boy, this one will be making you a good wife, D.V. "

"Judy," Sid pleaded helplessly, his cheeks red.

"Oh, oh, and I've embarrassed ye, have I?" said the mischevous Judy. "Never be forgetting, Siddy, that I knew ye when you were in daypers. Oh, and oh, the stories I could tell!"

At that Sid pulled Cecilia out of the kitchen.

It was a shame to go out into the chill of the afternoon-- the sun had come out for a bit but the sky was still heavy and gray. Silver Bush was such a nice, loving place. Cecilia loved the Gardiners-- they were far quieter and more restful than the Ingleside folk. Mrs. Gardiner with her soft gray hair and even softer eyes--Long Alec Gardiner's full beard and easy smile-- the sweet questions of little Cuddles, the baby-- and the charming, piquant laughter of Pat as she ran in and out with her friend Jingle and his dog, McGinty.

Sid stopped her in front of a little path.

"What are you going to show me?" Cecilia asked.

Sid took her hand in his own-- Judy was right, they were such tiny, delicate hands. He said,

"I'm going to show you the Secret Field."

"The Secret Field!" Cecilia thrilled at the very name of it. "That sounds so charming, Sid-- I have the most wonderful picture of it in my mind, just from the way you said those words. But why is it a secret?"

"It's a secret between me and Pat," Sid said. "We swore we would never show it to anyone else-- but it's my favorite place on earth-- and I want to show it to _you_."

He did not kiss her, then, but he did not have to. His very look was a kiss. Cecilia trembled with the feeling of it. Through the spruces she could just see the glint of the sun on green, green grass, but she quickly turned her head away.

"Oh--Sid!" she said. "I--would _so_--like to see it, but don't you see that you can't show it to me? Pat would never forgive you-- and I wouldn't want to see it if it meant breeching a secret between you two. Secrets are such _dear_ things, and--once broken" Quickly she told him of how betrayed she had felt when Blythe had showed Joy the house at Red Apple Farm.

Sid did kiss her, then. It was Cecilia's first kiss and she kept her blue eyes open the whole time, so that when Sid looked back up at her he saw his own feelings reflected there.

"You're a pearl of a girl, Cecilia Blythe," he said. "Wait right here and don't move. I'll be right back." Sid disappeared into the underbrush and Cecilia stood still as he had directed her and listened to the sweet sound of a mockingbird trilling high above in the trees.

When Sid came back his arms were laden with the last of the summer roses.

"If you can't come to the Secret Field," he said, laughing, and placing the flowers in her black hair, "Then the Secret Field must come to you."

Some time later, very much later that night, Cecilia lay in bed and thought her heart would burst if she couldn't tell _someone_ about Sid. Sighing she got up and took out her pen and paper and began a letter to Leslie. But then sighed again and tore the paper into bits. She was not a writer, like Grandmother, or a poet, like Blythe. She could not put into her own words everything that made Sid so charming, and being with him so wonderful. Cecilia had a realization that Sid would have to be her own dear secret, and she lay back down, still feeling restless, but somehow more contented.

"Feeling that your heart is going to burst isn't pleasant," she murmured drowsily. "But oh--it isn't _un_pleasant, either!"


	11. First, Loveliest, Love

Disclaimer: ( I haven't done one of these and think I probably should!)

I don't own any of the characters, except for the third generation Blythes (save Gilbert Ford and Walter Blythe, who are mentioned in _The Road to Yesterday_.)

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By mid-October, however, it was obvious that Sid was not Cecilia's secret any more. He was over at Ingleside, or she at Silver Bush, too often, and besides, there was something about Cecilia's eyes and the peony flush of her cheeks that let them know. The uncles twitted her mercilessly about her 'boyfriend,' and the aunts watched her warily and wistfully, perhaps remembering their own first flushes of young love. The little Annes thought it all hopelessly romantic, Trudy seemed envious but glad--if Cecilia, who was only a year older, was allowed to go out, then her time for boy-friends would come soon!--and Gilbert and Walter ceased to treat Cecilia like a little girl. They knew Sid Gardiner--they all ran in the same circles--and he was immensely popular and well-liked. Good at sports, too. And all the other girls were wild for him! Why, just last year Genevieve Elliot had tried to drown herself in the Glen pond when he danced with another girl at the Harvest dance! Although _she_ said she was leaning in to retrieve her hat. But she wouldn't say the _truth_, now, would she? And it was good to see that proud May Binnie put in her place. Everyone knew she'd been after Sid for years-- and now she hadn't got him. May was too dejected to torture any of the other boys, and so to Cecilia they all sang praise.

Even Grandfather asked her kindly about her 'beau,' making Cecilia blush painfully.

"Oh, Gilbert, don't!" Grandmother laughed. "_Such_ outmoded language! They don't call them 'beaux' nowadays. What a pair of old fuddy-duddies Cecilia must think we are!"

"I am an old fuddy-duddy," Grandfather insisted, giving his still-slender wife a kiss on the top of her head and thinking that if it weren't for the gray hair, she'd still look like Anne of the Green Gables days. There was no mistaking _her_ for a fuddy-duddy, whatever he himself might be.

But she was so happy, Cecilia was! It had been so long since she'd felt this kind of happiness! Monday was a sunrise, Tuesday a windsong, Wednesday and Thursday two different gardens full of flowers. Friday night she spent always with Sid, sitting before a warm hearth in the Silver Bush kitchen, or a crackling, goblin bonfire in Rainbow Valley. Although-- there would be no more bonfires. It was too risky. Cecilia, who just weeks ago had never been kissed, was now getting quite proficient at that art. She and Sid spent a good chunk of their time together practicing and had once been so studious that they hadn't noticed when the flames licked a little too closely to her new flannel dress. Oh, hadn't Aunt Nan been cross to see it singed! But Cecilia didn't mind, though it had been her favorite. She considered it a worthwhile sacrifice.

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I am _happy--so happy that it almost doesn't matter that May Binnie is spreading such horrible rumors about me, _ Cecilia wrote in the blue velvet book that Sid himself had given her to write her secrets in. She couldn't write to Father about _this_--he always got misty-eyed when he thought about her growing up, and Cecilia didn't want to cause Father any more unhappiness--not when she herself was so happy. And--though the High School was in uproar over this drama, somehow what was of great importance in Cecilia's own heart could be seen as trifling in comparison to what others were going through--through what Father himself was going through. And Mother, of course. They had all thought Mother would be better by now.

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I want her to be better. Cecilia wrote guiltily. _But I also don't want to go home. Why, the Glen seems every bit more homey than _home_ seems! And of course there's Sid, I won't deny it, though it makes me feel just _awful_ when I tack on to the end of my prayers at night, "Please don't let me have to leave too soon!" It's almost like praying that Mother won't get well, and that's _not_ what I mean at all._

Cecilia picked up her pen and chewed thoughtfully on the end of it. Then she put it back to paper and wrote words that seem to come straight from her heart, bypassing her brain altogether.

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I wish that Mother would get better, and she and Father would come here, to Red Apple Farm, to live!!

She knew it was very dangerous to write down what you wanted. It made it that much more painful when you didn't get it--because you had that written record to look back on. But she _did_ want it--so horribly! She wiped surreptitious tears from her eyes and went back to her original topic.

__

Certain rumors flicker back to me every so often. May has told people that I'm a kleptomaniac. She's told others that I am the 'Anonymous' that has had two poems published in the Glen Notes last month. That made me laugh-- only a Binnie would think that writing poems is something to be ashamed of. They were lovely poems, and I only wish they had been written by me. I strongly suspect that Blythe wrote them, and I want to ask him but can't, since we aren't talking still. I've almost forgotten that we used _to be friends_.

But oh, Miss Binnie's malice doesn't stop there! Probably the worst is she's told people I'm "fast," and will "get in trouble" if I keep going around with Sid. I know exactly what she means, and I think it's awful of her to say such things, even if she does hate me. I wouldn't dream of being bad in that way. Cathy and Nellie wonder why I won't stand up for myself, but I won't even deign to pretend to be bothered by such trash. If I did, some people will think it is true. Trudy knows what I mean--she doesn't comment on it, either, but gives those who ask her about it a cold, heart-hardening look. Gilly and Walt have vowed to pummel anyone they hear spreading lies, and Jake and Owen have pulled wonderful pranks on May and her cronies. I won't go into them here, for fear of incriminating them-- the teachers are still in uproar about the last one. But oh, how funny it was to see May-- but I won't _write it!_

__

I should think that Joy would be glad to see me being talked about so cruelly, even if it is by a Binnie nobody trusts. But she had a demerit last week--Joy never gets demerits-- and I finally found out why. Apparently she heard Trix Binnie saying something May had told her, and slapped her little, smug, pink-and-white face. Aunt Nan was telling Uncle Ken about it and I overheard. If it had been anyone else she'd slapped, I think Joyce would have been in trouble, but the Binnies are none too liked by our adults, either. I asked Aunt Rilla why, and Aunt Rilla just sniffed and said,

"Irene Howard's mother was a Binnie,"

With a look of utter_ disdain. Nobody does utter disdain so utterly disdainful as Aunt Rilla._

Anyway, I didn't know how to thank Joy for standing up for me. She makes me feel so small when I talk to her--but I did want her to know I cared. So I went to the mending pile and got out her lace collar--the one she thought couldn't be fixed--and stitched it up, with those pretty stitches Aunt Persis taught me, so it was good as new, and left it on her pillow. I know she found it, for I saw it washed and hanging from the line, though she hasn't worn it yet that I've seen. I wonder if there's hope for us yet?

"Cecilia!" Grandmother called from the kitchen, where there was the sound of voices and laughter. "Sid is here."

With that Cecilia threw down her pen and flew downstairs. It was just her little diary she was writing in, but her reaction would have been the same if it was the Great Canadian Novel she was working on. __

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She took to wearing something blue every day, for Sid had said it suited her. Oh, the pretty pinks and yellows of her wardrobe were quite forgotten! When she traipsed down the stairs to meet Sid, she was wearing a blue angora sweater from Auntie Faith, and looked just like a shy, forgotton violet. Sid Gardiner, seeing her alight on the landing, actually blushed with pleasure to think that the little smile on her face was for him-- and the little white hand that steadied itself on the railing would soon be tucked into his. Judy had been right about her hands-- they were the hands of an old statue-- only a thousand times more dear and charming! Sid had had many girl-friends before-- he was quite the handsomest boy in the Glen, Four Winds, and the Bay Shore combined. But his heart had never thrilled over any of them they way it did now over little, quiet, haunting Cecilia Blythe.

He spent less time out with his chums and more time on his schoolwork. He did his chores thoroughly and oftentimes before Long Alec had to remind him to get to it.

"She makes me want to be better, Dad," was Sid's way of explanation.

"Then by God, don't let her get away!" Long Alec Gardiner's eyes twinkled. The barn had never been in such tip-top shape since Joe had run away to sea.

"Oh, but I won't," said Sid levelly. "I'm going to marry her someday."

The Ingleside folks had not heard Cecilia make any declarations of the same kind, but they shook their heads over the whole thing, not with consternation, but humor. It must be admitted that the grown-ups did not take Cecilia's first romance as seriously as she herself did.

"The child _must_ be bewitched," marvelled Aunt Nan as Cecilia spun off into the night. Aunt Nan and Uncle Jerry had had an eminently sensible courtship.

"No--not bewitched--just in love," said the more romantic Aunt Rilla.

Nan sniffed. "Well, she's left the supper dishes soaking anyway." Love had not made Cecilia develop the same work ethic as her beloved. But Aunt Nan really didn't mind. _One_ good thing had come out of Cecilia's love affair, anyway. For years she had been trying to get Hazel Lewison to give her the famous Selby recipe for spice cake-- to no avail. Now that _her_ niece was going round with Hazel's nephew-- well, the recipe was as good as hers.

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A/N: Thank you all so MUCH for the reviews! A special shout-out belongs to Emma, for the research she did on Canadian laws permitting first cousins to marry. Check them out, in the review section. NOT that this means Cecilia and Blythe will marry! I like her with Sid, for now. And I'm definitely thinking of writing a sequel to this, so don't expect too many things to be resolved-- although I'll try and wrap up the mystery of Una ASAP.

And lovejag, I don't think Sid is related to Roy. I "borrowed" the character from LMM's _Pat of Silver Bush _and _Mistress Pat_ books. (If you haven't read them, you should!) The family in it is named Gardiner-- and LMM has the tendency to reuse names.

Again, thanks for the reviews. I'm enjoying so many of your stories-- everyone who's currently writing one update soonest!

-Ruby


	12. Cecilia the Brave

A/N: Before you read this chapter, go back and read chapter 2! I've changed it, and this one won't make any sense unless you go back and read!

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As winter approached, it seemed that everyone at Ingleside and associated with it fell sick with one malady or another. In fact, that season might be remembered as one of the sickliest seasons that dear place had ever known! One day Cathy Douglas came down to play and was not her usual merry, high-spirited self-- the next her eyes hurt and she had a headache-- and the day after that she could not come to play at all. Dr. Gilbert Blythe brought back the news that she was very ill with the measles. It isn't known whether he also brought those measles back with him, or if Cathy herself had passed it along to the Ingleside small fry.

They all had it, from Trudy on down. The small Annes were sickest, for just when it seemed they were getting better, both came down with the same case of bronchitis. That was also the time that Owen, on the first day he was allowed back out after his own convalescence, tripped on a pair of skates in the House of Dreams hall and broke his leg.

Aunt Nan and Uncle Jerry had 'flu, and Aunt Di wrote to say that Bertie and Teddy had gotten chicken pox from their own chums. Even Grandmother was laid up for weeks with a sore throat that turned into laryngitis-- which she deemed very unromantic indeed.

"I sound terrible when I talk," she whispered hoarsely. "It hurts me to have no voice-- for I do so love to talk."

"We know," said her progeny gravely--_that_was no secret.

But it was Uncle Bruce who was by far the sickest-- with a case of double pneumonia that was so serious he had to take the rest of the fall term off from Redmond and come home. Grandmother and Grandfather Meredith, who had inherited Auntie Nan's 'flu, were too sick to nurse him, so Cecilia, who had already had measles long ago, and had somehow escaped unscathed with only a slight common cold, went to the manse to help out.

"You're a capable little thing," said Uncle Bruce, as Cecilia changed the cold cloths on his head, straightened sheets, and plumped pillows. She had a sweet, concerned way of smiling that made the doses of medicine she administered with the precision of a station clock go down easier. "In a few more years, your Grandfather and Uncle Jem would do well to hire you."

"Women aren't doctors," Cecilia started to say, and then stopped. Dr. Marigold Woodruff from upper Harmony had set Owen's broken leg not two weeks ago--if she had been able to do it, why not Cecilia herself? She changed her mind.

"Perhaps they will," she said thoughtfully. "I like taking care of people, Uncle Bruce. It's nice to be_needed_. And every day I see you looking better--and healthier--and when I think that maybe I had something to do with it, oh, it gives me such a_prayerful_feeling."

"I'm glad to hear you say that," Uncle Bruce chuckled. "I was all astir with consternation that you might be cross with me-- I've kept you from so many moonlight trysts you might have otherwise had."

He meant Sid. Oh, why was Uncle Bruce teasing? Cecilia hadn't expected it from him.

"I'm not allowed to go to Silver Bush until the younger ones have gotten over measles," she said shortly. "Sid's little sister, Cuddles, hasn't had them yet."

"You're plumping my pillows with a vengeance," Uncle Bruce yelped. "Call off your dogs, Cee. I was teasing--I was--and I'm sorry. I'll tell you a secret. We grownups are so prone to tease because we don't like the thought of growing older. Why, I remember when you were born! Shirley and Una were the happiest people on the Island that night-- I held you and you fit just into my hand, you were so small. And now you're grown--and older enough to have love affairs!_What_a feeling! Oh, pity me, Cecilia-- instead of being cross."

"It's--not--a love affair--exactly," Cecilia said, almost restored to her good humor. The thought of Uncle Bruce growing old-- he was like a chum, not an uncle. "I mean, it_is--_but to hear you_call_it a love affair makes it seem, I don't know--"

"Cheap and tawdry, somehow," Uncle Bruce finished for her. "So many people before in the world have had 'love affairs'-- but what you have, right now, is better and brighter than all that. At least, to you, it is. Oh, if all of Greece was rucked up over Paris and Helen, imagine how momentous their love seemed to_them_!"

Cecilia, who had read that age-old story of love, remembered a funny anecdote about May Binnie, who hadn't, and related it to Uncle Bruce just then. Imagine thinking Paris, and Helen, and Agamemnon were characters in a soap opera!

Uncle Bruce faintly smiled, but Cecilia could not help noticing that he didn't really seem to be listening. His eyes had a very faraway look in them. All this talking had probably tired him out. Some nurse she was! What if he had a relapse?

"I'll get you a glass of water and then tiptoe out," she murmured, but Uncle Bruce caught her by the arm.

"No," he said, in a voice that was harder than his jocular tone of moments earlier. "Stay, Cecilia. If you leave me here, I'll be alone with ghosts-- and that isn't a pleasant thing to be. You don't have to talk to me--I don't want to talk and I don't want to be talked to. Just sit, and keep the ghosts at bay."

So Cecilia sat, as silent as he bade her be. Uncle Bruce said something only once-- a word in tones so low that she could not be sure she heard it. She racked her brain to think of what could have suddenly made him so melancholy-- she went all over their conversation-- and arrived again and again at the same tremulous conclusion.

"I wonder," she said to herself, as her patient fell into a fitful sleep, "If Uncle Bruce has ever been in love?" Because the word Uncle Bruce had murmured sounded like another name from Greek myth-- not that of fateful Helen, but_Penelope_.

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Cecilia did not even mind running errands for Uncle Bruce while he was still laid up in bed. He had gotten well enough to sit up in bed, and to be cranky and bored. Twice a week he had Cecilia go to the market and buy two gallons of buttermilk. A medical student friend of his at Redmond had said there was no better way to boost your strength than to drink 5 glasses of buttermilk a day, though Uncle Jem and Grandfather were skeptical. But Uncle Bruce was so tired of sitting in bed that he would have tried anything!

More often than that, though, he dispatched Cecilia to the library in nearby Carlisle. Uncle Bruce read copiously and voraciously-- he read three pages for every one Cecilia finished! He would pick up a book before breakfast and put it back on the shelf before dinner, then start another. And it was necessary for her to go all the way to Carlisle, he said, because he'd read everything worth reading in the Four Winds branch years ago. And as the route to the library led her straight past Silver Bush, Cecilia was glad to go. She liked to look up at the solid, quiet house, and_think_of Sid, even if she could not go into the warm kitchen and see him.

It was a long walk in the growing-frostier air. They had all had such bad luck with their health that summer that the aunts were wondering what the old doctor was thinking, letting the child walk so far in such cold! Why, they might as well expose her to pneumonia germs directly! But Dr. Gilbert Blythe had noticed the girl drooping over her supper plate one day, and said to his wife,

"I don't like it at all-- she has that same wan look as Una had."

So Cecilia was allowed out in the fresh air as much as she wanted, to build up her strength. As long as she wore her flannels, and a muffler, of course.

She spent a long time perusing the shelves for her own leisure before she tackled the long list of books that Uncle Bruce had sent her for. She disdained the fairy stories that had once captivated her-- she thought herself too grown up now to read them. Though a truly grownup person knows that one never grows out of fairytales. The dime romance novels she laughed at outright. They were such--trash! Not fit to be in the same room as_real_books. How terrible of those authors to make love sound so cheap--and tawdry--and_common_!

Instead Cecilia gravitated to the medical books. She had started looking though them to find remedies for Uncle Bruce's night cough-- and she kept reading through them because they were so_interesting_. She had just finished a book on the diseases of the liver, and this week had found another on intestinal parasites. Aunts Nan and Rilla would have been horrified to know what she was reading, Aunt Nan especially, but Cecilia was not at all squeamish about what she read. It fascinated her. Imagine-- there was a whole different world_inside_your body as well as out! Anyway, she managed to keep the books secret, and talked them over with Aunt Faith, who had been a nurse, and vowed to keep her secret, too.

With sigh, Cecilia noticed it was beginning to get dark, and that she had better get going if she wanted to be at Ingleside for supper. She found the first three books that Uncle Bruce had wanted, but the fourth she could not find. She might never have found it --and that was the one out of all the books that Uncle Bruce had really wanted-- if she had not heard a muffled sniffling from behind one of the shelves. Cautiously she approached, peeked around, and saw a woman sitting on the floor with her legs crossed like a Turk, weeping into the pages of_David Copperfield_.

With a shock Cecilia realized this wild-eyed, red-faced woman was Miss Branston. She would gladly have sneaked away-- Miss Branston had never been her favorite person-- but at that moment her old schoolteacher gave a great sniff and looked up, meeting her pupil's eyes.

"Well, what?" said Miss Branston crossly. "What do you want? And why is it that you Blythes are always every where? You can't make a mud-pie in these parts without a Blythe or Meredith-- or heaven forbid, a Ford!-- poking his nose in it. It is a shapely nose, I'll admit it, not like my own hook, but the whole lot of you should learn to keep it where it belongs!"

Cecilia gathered herself up.

"I am_very_sorry," she said coldly. "I was only looking for a book, and had no idea whatsoever that you were here."

"Aren't we proud!" said Miss Branston sarcastically. "Well, what book is it? I suppose you've looked everywhere and can't find it. Don't worry! I'll find it for you, I'm used to doing things for other people, always, and never for myself."

"It's_David Copperfield_," said Cecilia hotly, feeling that she was being treated very unfairly. She hadn't done_anything_to make Miss Branston mad, and it wasn't fair of her to take her anger out on innocent bystanders. "But_you_are hogging the only copy."

Miss Branston looked like she would cry again.

"I'm sorry," she said, fresh tears in her eyes. "Only-- I am in such a_bad_mood. Bad bad_bad--_I'd have to say it a hundred times to tell you how really terrible I feel. Here--" she gave forth the tome. "I have this book at home-- it's my favorite-- but I couldn't bear to be at home to read it. My mother is ill, you know, and I am the one who has to take care of her. One of my sisters has just gotten married-- the other will have a baby before the month is out-- and what have I? I always thought I would have more somehow, out of life, than a bed in my mother's home and a corner on the library floor. I had to escape, you see. Cecilia-- Cecilia Blythe-- promise once you have figured out what it is you want to do with your life you will go out and_do_it-- and always go forward, and_never back._"

"I-- promise," said Cecilia haltingly, afraid of Miss Branston's wild eyes.

"How is your mother?" asked Miss Branston quietly. "I expected you to be back in Montreal by now."

"She is--fine," Cecilia lied. "I expected_you_to be back by now, too."

"So did I," said Miss Branston. "Oh, so did I! Here, go on and take the book and let us part ways-- I'm making you feel bad, and you're not making me feel any better. I'd better be going before I have you pondering the whims of the universe, too. Well,_take_it, child! Didn't I just tell you I have one at home? I_am_glad to see you reading a_real_book instead of the trash your peers are reading. That's one thing that gives me some hope in the future."

"I'm not reading it--I still haven't finished_Silas Marner_from last school term," Cecilia admitted. "This is for my Uncle Bruce-- he's sick in bed."

Cecilia's fingers had almost touched the cover of the book, but Miss Branston yanked it back.

"Bruce Meredith wants it!" She threw the book on the floor and stamped it, hard, once, and then tucked it under her arm again. "Tell him he shan't have it-- he shan't-- he's always gotten everything he wanted but he shan't have this! Run away, Cecilia! And God forbid your soul should ever look like mine."

"There is such unhappiness in the world," said Cecilia to herself on the way home. "It makes the world a very uncomfortable place, at times! Well, Uncle Bruce shall have to be happy with_Oliver Twist_, instead. Oh,_what_could have made Miss Branston say such things? And why does she hate Uncle Bruce so?"


	13. Of Pride and Promises

"Did you see what Kitty Flagg was wearing in church this past Sunday?" said Aunt Nan—actually, gossiped Aunt Nan, one late October day as she and the other aunts concocted part of a marvellous feast in the Ingleside kitchen. Finally, the bout of bad luck at the house had passed, and a great dinner of celebration was being held to rejoice at the return to good health. All the women were working, preparing their own delicacies—Aunt Nan's cream pies, Rilla's cornbread stuffing, and Faith was basting the turkey.  
  
"Do you remember the terrible things we had to eat at the manse before Mother Rosemary came?" she was laughing. Really, Aunt Faith did look so beautiful with her hair in little ringlets from the steam. It was plain to see why Uncle Walter had written sonnets to her, and why Uncle Jem loved her so. "I do so love preparing a big meal now—it reminds me of those days—and the little girl in me wants to stick her fingers in all the puddings, lest they disappear."  
  
But Aunt Rilla was not interested in reminiscing—she was much more interesting in giving things a "talking over," as she and Aunt Nan called it. They never would have dreamed of calling it gossip, though in truth, that's what it was.  
  
"Yes," Aunt Rilla said in horror. "That dress—she might have been wearing nothing at all! And her only sixteen! I would never let Trudy wear something so garish."  
  
Trudy, who had the unglamourous job of mashing the potatoes, wilted visibly. She had thought Kitty Flagg's dress the height of fashion.  
  
Almost everyone in the Glen and Four Winds, and its environs had gotten a tongue lashing from the Ingleside women that day. They were usually genial souls, and would have gone out of their way for any of those they discussed on even their worst day, but they were only human, and subject to all human flaws. Besides, even Grandmother was not averse to a good "talking over."  
  
"I think it's shameful the way that Trix Binnie dresses, too," said Aunt Nan. "I've decided not to let Joy associate with her anymore—you'd be wise to keep Trudy away from her, too, Rilla, and Merry, Faith."  
  
"I don't think there's any danger of our girls associating with Binnies," said Aunt Faith. "But oh, let's leave the young people alone. We were just as vain and stupid and silly at that age. Let's, as someone wise once said, 'pick on someone our own size.' I saw the elder Mrs. Branston, from Three Hills, at the Ladies' Aid the other day, and she looked a true fright. I think there was a bird's nest on her head!"  
  
"She called it a hat—perhaps Jem should check her eyes at her next check-up," said Auntie Rilla, and the aunts had a good laugh.  
  
"So it looks like Eleanor Branston has gotten over her own case of 'pneumonia,'" Aunt Nan went on.  
  
"Hasn't Eleanor been dying by inches for years?" said Rilla archly—though not maliciously.  
  
"Yes—she's always coming down with some deadly disease or another, though Jem says mostly it's something minor or all in her mind. I feel for her, I do—but more than that, I feel sorry for her youngest girl. Eleanor's other girls won't have anything to do with her—they've got sense, at least—so the brunt of it falls on Penelope. She's too dutiful for her own good."  
  
"I saw her at the market a few days ago," said Aunt Di, coming in from the garden with a late harvest of squash. "She looked exhausted."  
  
"Well," sniffed Aunt Nan. "You would be too, with a Mother like that to look after. Poor Pen Branston. She was always such a laughing girl. People thought she would go far—until her—disappointment."  
  
Cecilia, who was rolling the dough for pastry with Merry, perked up her ears.  
  
"Well, I don't feel sorry for her," said Rilla, who had been at school when Miss Branston had been, though they had been many grades apart. "She always seemed to have too highan opinion of herself."  
  
Rilla, who had more than once had the same thing said about her, tossed her head unsympathetically, and unironically.  
  
"They say she was going to study law," said Aunt Di. "The Branstons were always poor as church mice. Tom Branston drank everything a little faster than he made it—and left a family of five and huge debts when he died. Penny Branston put herself through Queens on scholarship—and saved for years to go to Redmond—only to get beat out for that scholarship. Who'd have thought she'd end up teaching? She always hated small fry."  
  
Cecilia, who had been listening with cat's ears, and had often felt the pierce of Miss Branston's barbs in the schoolroom, could well believe it.  
  
"It's better that than a lawyer," remarked Mary Vance, who had come up for the evening. Somehow, they could not leave Mary Vance out of family events. And she had brought one of the striped cakes and some fancy salads from the case at the store—those striped cakes were renowned the world over. "She should have known better than to think a woman could practice law."  
  
"Oh, but why not?" asked Aunt Faith, eyes flashing. "Women can do so many things, Mary."  
  
"Well, don't I know it!" said Mary complacently. "Say, wasn't Bruce quite taken with her once upon a time?"  
  
"Oh," laughed Aunt Nan. "They were chums of course—and ran around together during their Queens days, but I don't think it was all that people said. Anyway, when Bruce won the scholarship instead of her, she went quite off of him. Said he'd stolen it from her—'taken what was rightly hers,' were her words."  
  
"How could she fault him for working just as hard?" Rilla questioned.  
  
"I think he might have let her have it," said Aunt Faith quietly. "Penelope Branston had nothing—and Father could have paid—would have gladly paid to send Bruce to Redmond on his own. But Bruce was too proud to give it up—he said Father's money was for him and Rosemary to live on, not for him to begin with. But I know Bruce—I could see in his eyes that he felt quite terrible about it. He really cared for Penny, I think. She had to go to a Teaching College in Montreal instead—an uncle put her through—and I think he treated her quite badly. And Penny has never forgiven Bruce—she blames him for spoiling all her hopes and dreams. I don't think she's ever given them up."  
  
All of Miss Branston's furious words that afternoon in the library began to make sense to Cecilia. She was overcome by a wave of remorse—she should not have been so cold! And pity—and, yes, anger with Uncle Bruce. It was the first time she had felt that way toward any of her family. He should have let her have it! Oh, why hadn't he? Why did pride make people act so horribly?  
  
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Cecilia was making ready for the Hallowe'en Dance at the harbor when there was a rap on her chamber door. She ignored it at first—it was likely only Trudy—and she still had to figure out what to do with her hair. She had gotten a bunch of pink mums from Sid earlier in the day—but she did so want to wear her red dress, and red and pink looked a fright together. She would have work her yellow—that would have suited the pink—but oh, the red dress! It was like a flame—and make her look alluring in ways that the pink could not.  
  
There was a rap again—and Cecilia sighed. She would just save the mums and go without flowers. Although—she had wanted to wear flowers in her hair, tucked behind her ear. She had seen it in a fashion magazine and it looked so glamourous. Besides, with winter coming on, there would be no flowers for ever so long. She wanted one last, sweet, flowery hurrah.  
  
It was Uncle Bruce, clutching two pristine red roses in his hand.  
  
"I brought these for your adornment," he smiled, looking still-weak but livelier than he had in weeks. "And to thank you for being such a brick. You've done well by your old Uncle these past weeks, Cee. The best nurse I ever had."  
  
"Oh!" Cecilia tucked the flowers in her shining hair. They were just the thing! But where had he found roses this time of year?  
  
"They were the last in the manse garden," Uncle Bruce said, reading her thoughts. "You look thoroughly grown up, Cecilia. You'll knock Sid's socks off tonight, I reckon. Ah, to be young and in love!"  
  
At that word—love—Cecilia stiffened. She had not been able to feel the same toward Uncle Bruce since hearing the story of how he had treated Miss Branston.  
  
"Thank you," she said shortly, and turned away without even a dutiful peck.  
  
"Hey!" Uncle Bruce protested. "You're being awfully cold—was I really such a bad patient as all that?"  
  
"No-oo-o," Cecilia quavered. Then her words came out in a rush. "Oh, Uncle Bruce, don't you think you could have given the scholarship to Miss Branston? Don't you think you should have?"  
  
Bruce Meredith's face darkened. He was not used to being reprimanded—especially not by little chits of girls, who were not yet sixteen.  
  
"So the hens have been clucking, I see," was all he said.  
  
"If you did love her," said Cecilia with spirit, "You wouldn't have acted so cruelly. I don't believe you did love her—or else you did it out of spite. Oh, it was nasty of you, Uncle Bruce!"  
  
"Don't speak of things you know nothing about, child," said Uncle Bruce just as hotly.  
  
Perhaps she did not know the whole story, but Cecilia knew she had struck a vein of truth. The Merediths all had faces that showed their feelings—it was what made Grandfather Meredith and Uncle Jerry such good ministers—Aunt Faith and Uncle Carl such good companions—and Uncle Bruce such a bad liar.  
  
Cecilia did not like being disdained to—and she did not dignify Bruce's protestations with a response. Instead she tore the bloodred flowers he had given her from her hair and crushed them under her heel, then left the room with the cold air of a queen.  
  
Bruce was left standing in the room alone, the sound of voices and laughter downstairs that was near hium but did not touch him. The smell of broken flowers rose up to meet him—and made him think of things that he had almost forgotten—would rather forget.  
  
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Sid Gardiner found a dear girl in his arms that night, with the same obsidian hair and violet eyes that he had always known, but her eyes were troubled and clouded and her brow was wrinkled. He suspected strongly that though her flame-like body moved with the music and her lips parted to answer his queries and accept his compliments, that Cecilia was not fully there with him at the dance.  
  
"Where are you wandering, Cecilia o'mine?" he asked her, and felt a pang with he saw her lips quivering, and her lashes wet.  
  
"Oh Sid!" she flung her arms around his neck. "You wouldn't ever hurt me, would you? And if I wanted something—you'd do everything you could to help me get it?"  
  
"If you wanted the moon I'd lasso it for you," said Sid glibly. "And of course I'd never hurt you, Cee."  
  
At that time, he really believed he'd rather be thrown in a furnace heated seven times seven times than make her brow furrow with worry as it was now.  
  
"Let's make a pact to never do one wrong thing to one another," Cecilia said passionately. "Not—one­—wrong—thing."  
  
They met lips to seal the promise, and it was the easiest pact that Sid Gardiner would ever make.  
  
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Does anyone see where I'm going with this? I hope so, or else I'm a terrible writer! Hope you're enjoying this as much as I'm enjoying your stories.  
  
Terreis, you'd better update soon! I'm DYING for more about Chris.  
  
A few months ago, some of you emailed me to tell me about other LMM fanfic forums. Since I've read everything on this one, I'd love it if you could send me those links again! I deleted my email folder by accident, and don't have the links anymore. 


	14. A Glad Reversal

Autumn turned into winter. It was a very cold, very dry winter. Not one drop of sleet or snow fell, but the lakes and ponds and harbor had all turned into ice overnight and a cutting, bitter wind sliced over them. It was too cold to skate--to cold to walk anywhere but school and home again.

"I wish it would _snow_," Cecilia said to herself as she braced against the biting wind. "Somehow I don't mind the cold where it's lovely and snowy outside, because there's some reward then."

She thought the red sandstone cliffs looked lovely still against the frozen harbor and bleak grey sky, but the Ingleside garden had been made ugly by the winter and the trees had been stripped of their leaves-- oh, for a plot of gentle white drifts and branches dripping with diamond ice!

Cecilia did go out, however, and braved the cold one dismal afternoon, for a quite secret errand. She made sure to slip out of the back-- Grandmother and Grandfather would have surely wanted to know where she was going if they saw her armed with a hammer and nails, and boards she had picked up in the scrap pile near the school. On her way home last week she had noticed that some of the boards on the windows of the house at Red Apple Farm were looked banged by the wind and rotted by damp. And nothing must happen to those crystal, diamond-paned windows-- Cecilia didn't dare ask anyone else to do it for her. But that was all right-- she quite relished the idea of doing it herself.

The house was sleeping in the gray afternoon sun, and when she neared it a wind tossed its shingled and pounded its boards. A long creaking groan came at her, as if the house was rebuking her, not unkindly, though. _Where have you been_! It was asking.

Cecilia had a fine hour of pounding away until all of the lower windows were tightly covered. She whistled and sang while she worked, and let her mind roam in an orgy of daydreams. How she had missed this dear little house! She wanted so to go in-- but remembered her vow not to, since Blythe had _desecrated_ it with Joy's prescence. She had to harden her heart-- oh drat, she had forgotten about the eyebrow window above the door!

She eyed it warily. It was a long way up from the ground-- but it was Cecilia's favoritest window in the house. Such a dear, charming window, like an inverted smile, or a vent in pie crust. And it threw such bewitching shadows over the hall floor on sunny days. And whistled when there was a north wind!

"Of course I'll nail it," she said. "I'm done with being afraid of anything."

She had not quite thought about how she would perch on the roof with hammer and nail in her hand, without falling. Or how she would manage to get the board up with her as she climbed the trellis. _That_ ended up being easy-- walking on the roof over to the gable was hard. Surely if any of the grownups had seen her they would have died of fright. But Cecilia was as nimble as a cat, and made her way to the front gable gracefully.

Almost there-- and then it happened! She stumbled. No, our young heroine did not fall to her death-- though if she had been walking one inch more to her right, she might have. Instead she slipped to the left, and came down hard on the shingles. She clutched desperately at the drainpipe to keep herself from sliding--that was the first priority. That done, she realized something was dreadfully wrong with her leg.

The roof of that house was made of cedar shingles, which, while beautiful, were not the most durable of surfaces. They were meant to be replaced every few years, and these particular shingles had not been seen to in a dozen. If Cecilia had known how unsound the roof was while she was still safely on the ground, she never would have climbed up. Well, she was finding it out now!

When she crashed down, her leg went through a rotted place and anchored her there. She couldn't pull it up, for long splinters were sticking into her. Cecilia kicked her dangling leg furiously-- what a site it must have been, if one had been able to see it from the inside! She shouted for help but her voice was lost in the wind, which had picked up, and dark clouds rolled across the sky, ferried by it.

"It looks like snow," said Cecilia-- quite calmly. It looked like more than snow-- and if Cecilia had known the truth, she might not have been so calm about it. In fact, a great storm-- a blizzard-- had struck upper Maine and decided to move North at a very rapid rate. It was one of the worst winter storms the Island would ever know. But Cecilia did not know that-- and _someone_ would come along soon and set her free. She was sure of it.

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But no one came. It grew darker and colder, and still-- _no one came_. A hard, freezing rain began to fall and Cecilia shivered inside her thin coat. Why had she worn this silly peacoat instead of her down one? And oh, for a muffler!

"At least I've got on my long underwear," she consoled herself. "And _one_ leg is warm, even though it aches so."

She was still quite sure that someone would come. Trudy went down to visit the Douglas girls after school-- she'd be walking by any minute. Only she did not know that Uncle Ken had somehow managed to predict this storm and told Trudy she may not go. Perhaps Gil and Walt had gone skating? They often did-- despite the biting wind. Oh, how it bit and howled now, like a fierce angry savage!

A light snow began to fall.

Cecilia was on the point of despair-- frozen, trapped, and aching, and almost began to panic. Then, far down the lane, she saw a figure hurrying in the direction of Ingleside. She began to scream and shout-- she hardly knew what sounds she was making, her teeth were chattering so. But the far-off figure looked up, and changed his course to walk toward her.

"Hey! Is anybody up there?"

It was Blythe. Cecilia momentarily hardened her heart. She did not want to be rescued by Blythe. But-- she could not stay up here in the storm all night! Pride battled with Necessity, and finally she gave in.

"Blythe! Blythe!" she shouted. "I'm up here-- on the roof!"

Blythe stared up in astonishment. He had expected a calm but blustery walk home, after an afternoon of playing at Matt Elliot's. He had not expected to become a sudden rescuer of errant cousins.

"How in heaven's name did you come to be there?" he asked exasperatedly, looking for all the world like Uncle Jerry.

"Oh, _please_," said poor Cecilia. "It's a long story-- I'll tell you later-- go around to the woodshed and get an axe and climb up and get me out! My leg is caught. But oh, be careful, Blythe-- the roof is rotted through and it will be no good for either of us if you fall in, too."

Blythe did as he was bade-- carefully, for the roof was now slippery wet with ice. He cut through the shingles holding Cecilia's poor leg calmly and carefully, not wanting to hurt her, and after a few moments her leg was free. Blythe held up his axe, triumphant, and Cecilia pulled her leg through with a gasp of relief-- and was about to spring into his arms--!

But the added weight of Blythe on the rotted part of the roof made the whole section they were standing on give way. The two fell down through the widening hole into the garrett of Red Apple Farm.

If there had not been a plump old sofa littered with piles of old quilts directly underneath the hole, they might have broken their backs and been paralyzed forever. But the sofa _was_ there. They were really so very lucky, though neither would have thought themselves that at the particular moment that they fell. Blythe fell on the sofa, and Cecilia fell on Blythe, and the wind was knocked out of both of them.

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It was hard to say how long they laid there, fighting for air, but when Cecilia finally pulled herself up she was covered with a dusting of snow that was coming in through the gap in the roof.

"Blythe," she whispered, terrified. "Are you killed?"

"Noo-oo-o," Blythe groaned. "But--_owwww_--I kind of wish I were."

The two trundled downstairs to the darkened parlor.

"_What_ is that sound?" Cecilia asked. There was a low, groaning, terrible sound all around them and the walls of the little house were shaking.

"I think it is-- the wind," said Blythe increduously, and peeked out of the peephole in the door. "Come look! The roads are covered-- I don't know how we'll get home now."

"Oh!" said Cecilia desperately. "But-- we have to! I'm supposed to go to Abby Penhallow's party tonight. Sid was coming to pick me up."

"Likely Sid won't drive over in this," said Blythe reasonably. "The roads aren't going to be passable. This storm looks like a real doozy. Besides," he grumbled, not so reasonably and a little jealously. "_You_ shouldn't be hanging around with Sid Gardiner anyway."

"And why is that?" Cecilia asked haughtily.

"There's no poetry in him," Blythe said with disdain.

"Oh! And I suppose you think that is the worst thing," cried Cecilia. How had Leslie put it? "You, who are always mooning over things and never doing _anything_. Sid is a doer-- and a wonderful person-- and I'd rather have him than all the poetry in the world. I _won't_ talk to you anymore, Blythe Meredith. And I won't stand for another bad word about Sid."

"I would have left you on the roof if I'd had any sense," said Blythe hotly.

They stared at each other furiously, then all at once, without speaking, decided to call a truce. At least for the time they were stuck in the house.

"Well, we can't go home tonight," Blythe said. "Look out there-- we can't walk in that. I can use the extra wood to build a fire, but we haven't any paper to start it with."

"Use Monopoly money," Cecilia suggested. "And there's bound to be cans of something we can eat in the pantry-- even if they are old, they won't kill us. Oh, no! I hope they aren't _too_ worried about us at home."

"They know we're smart," Blythe said. "They'll know we found shelter somewhere-- but I suppose a little bit of worrying can't be helped. They are only grownups, after all."

In no time, Blythe had a little but merry fire crackling and Cecilia served up bowls of pork and beans. The flames made jolly shapes on the walls, and despite everything, Cecilia started to feel warm and contented. She and Blythe gave themselves in to the adventure.

It felt _good_ to talk again! They both poured out all of the things that had been on their minds the past few months, when they hadn't talked. Blythe recited several new poems-- and he had been the 'Anonymous' in the Glen notes! Cecilia told Blythe _some _of the things about Sid-- not all, for some things were too lovely to tell. She also told him about Miss Branston and Uncle Bruce.

"What a mystery!" said Bly. "Why, he should have let her have it, I think. Oh, this is fun, Cecilia. I can't believe we've gone so long without a good talk."

"Well, if you hadn't--" Cecilia began, then stopped. But Blythe knew what she was going to say.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. No one knew how much those words had cost Blythe-- he was the son of Nan, the proudest of the proud Blythes. But he did mean it, and he knew it must be said, because even more than he felt pride, he knew he had been wrong. "It was awful of me to bring Joy here-- I wasn't thinking-- I'd do anything to take it back. Oh, Cecilia-- don't you think we can ever be friends again?"

Cecilia considered this. Was it worth it, to give up the warm companionship she felt now, for the sake of a grudge? All at once she decided, "Yes. We can."

The cousins clasped hands over it and talked until they began to feel drowsy and laid rugs out before the fire.

"It looks like a veritable fairyland outside," Blythe said. "Oh, what fun it will be to walk around in it tomorrow, when the wind stops. I'll dig us out in the morning-- what an adventure this is!"

"Mm," Cecilia agreed. "We'll do it together-- oh it feels good to do things together again! But," she yawned. "You really _mustn't_ say anything else bad about Sid because I care for him-- and for you to disapprove-- oh, it hurts me, Bly."

"I won't say anything bad," Blythe promised. But in his secret soul, he knew he would never approve. There was no one on the earth wonderful enough for this angel, who fell into sleep beside him. Not even he, Blythe Meredith, was fit to touch her hand. But he was-- she had pressed it into his as she drifted off. _And_ especially not Sid Gardiner!


	15. Above Thy Deep and Dreamless Sleep

The weeks leading up to Christmas at Ingleside was a whirl of color and activity. The hallways of that dear house were a-buzz with secrets, whispered conversations, and the rustle of wrapping paper. For weeks Cecilia had shut herself up in her room, knitting furiously. There were so many people to get presents for this year! Last year it had been only Mother, Father, and Susan.

She made sachets of old rose petals and lavender for the aunts-- and for Joy and Merry, who were getting too big to appreciate gifts like the mittens she was knitting for Trudy, Bertie and the small Annes. Trudy got a matching muffler because she was Cecilia's especial friend-- it was the first she had ever tried to make and the stitches a little uneven. But when it was wound around Trudy's dear face, who would notice the stitches?

She made cookies for the small boys, from an old recipe of Aunt Persis.' Because Leslie had no interest in cooking, Aunt Persis had promised the recipe to Cecilia and Cecilia only. Leslie herself got the same balsam glider set that Cecilia bought from the dime store for Gilly and Walter-- Leslie would sniff disdainfully over something so _female_ as a sachet, and would lose one of the mittens within hours of getting them. Cecilia _knew_ Leslie. For Kent she bought a little sticker-book. For Blythe she had spent a large sum of her allowance on a great. leather-bound volume of poetry by Hopkins. But he must keep it a secret, lest the other cousins feel jealous.

Grandfather and Grandmother had said they did not want the young folks to spend money making them presents. For Father, Cecilia framed her class picture. But oh, what for Mother? For Mother would spend this Christmas at the hospital, and there were very few things Cecilia was allowed to send. Books, paper, pencils. That was it! No photographs that might upset her. No things that she might hurt herself with. Cecilia racked her brain for a long while, and then had a revelation. She would send Mother that old book of poetry of Uncle Walter's! It would certainly be a nice reminder of home, and the old, forgotten days.

She sang as she wrapped it, and included a handwritten note between the leaves. _Merry Christmas, darling Mother!_ It said. That note by itself would have had a chance of cheering Una up. The book of poetry would have made her smile in rememberance--and yes, regret. But between the pages of the book there was also another letter that Cecilia had forgotten to take out, one that urged its reader to _keep faith_. It was that letter that would have quite the opposite effect for sad, tortured Una Blythe.

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Cecilia and Sid were talking things over as they walked home from Christmas Eve service at the Church. The world was hushed by newfallen snow, and it seemed as they were walking in a dream.

"It reminds me of the poem," said Sid, in an uncharacteristic flight of fancy.

"_The moon on the breast of the newfallen snow_

Gave lustre of midday to objects below."

Cecilia had always thought it a garish, unbeautiful poem, but on this snowy, Christmas night, it was the right thing. She sighed with happiness when Sid had finished and repeated that peaceful last line.

"Merry Christmas to all-- And to all a good night! Oh," she thrilled. "How can _words_ be as beautiful as people-- and things! Sometimes they are even more so. When Uncle Jerry read that age old story tonight, one line jumped out at me and made me shiver: _For unto you this day a Child is born, in Bethlehem!_ Oh, Sid, look how quiet and still and _expectant_ everything is! What if we saw a star suddenly rise in the East-- and followed it-- and found ourselves transported back to that wonderful night so long and far ago."

"It might look quiet and still," Sid said, with a grin. "But think of all the kids inside those houses who are full of mischief this night. I know Cuddles will still be up when I get home-- begging not to have to go to bed, and too excited to sleep when she finally does. But it is peaceful to look at from here," he admitted. "It reminds me of the hymn-- _above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by. _That line always made me feel sort of peculiar whenever I heard it-- but in a glad way. Isn't that strange?"

Cecilia would have thrilled to be reminded of that line-- she had always loved that carol-- had she not been lost in thought. Sid had reminded her of something.

"Susan would have been too excited to sleep, too," she murmured. "Peeking through the window slats to try and see Santa Claus-- like she was doing last year-- only last year! Susan-- Susan-- where are you tonight?"

Sid felt a pang of-- something-- when he saw her eyes. It felt like he was standing in the face of a great hurricane with nothing to brace against. Oh, how terrible it was to feel powerless in the face of her sorrow! When he had promised her and himself that nothing--_ nothing_-- of sorrow should touch her. He comforted her in the only way he could think of.

"I've a present for you," he said, and presented her with a very pretty necklace of cut glass beads that sparkled like crystal and were as blue as her eyes. He fastened the gold clasp around her neck and stood back to admire the way they glinted against her creamy throat in the moonlight. He would have preferred to get her a string of diamonds-- or sapphires-- or pearls, but these glass beads would have to do. To a schoolboy without the means to make money of his own, they were as dear as diamonds, anyway.

Sid had done a foolish thing-- he had bought two strings of beads-- one of violet-blue for Cecilia-- and an amber ones that he left on the doorstep of the Long Lonely House. For Bets. It was ridiculous-- but he had wanted to get her something. Only last winter he had promised himself he would-- when Bets had walked among them.

"Oh, thank you!" Cecilia breathed, the sudden joy of getting her first present from a true-love somewhat quenching her anguish. "They're lovely, Sid-- I'll never take them off."

So she was restored to good humor when Sid left her at the door of Ingleside with a kiss-- she sang and danced around her room while she made ready for bed. She bade Blythe goodnight with a smile and a cousinly salute-- for Uncle Jerry had to be at the church early and Blythe had been allowed to stay over. And when she went to sleep, Sid's beads glistened still around her neck.

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She awoke in a sweat hours later. It couldn't be morning already-- why, then, did she hear hushed voices in the kitchen? And the sound of sobs-- there was someone crying. With trepidation Cecilia pulled herself up and padded softly downstairs.

They were all there, in the kitchen-- Grandmother and Grandfather, Uncle Jerry and Aunt Nan, Aunt Faith and Jem, and Blythe. It was Blythe who had woken Grandmother, shortly before, with a premonition.

"I feel like something dreadful is going to happen," he said, his dark eyes alight with fear.

And the telephone had rung.

Aunt Nan had her face hid in Uncle Jerry's chest-- she was the one that was crying. Aunt Faith simply looked very pale-- and Uncle Jem was speaking in low tones on the telephone. Cecilia felt a wave of dread wash over her.

"Wh-what is the matter?" she demanded to know, in a loud but quavering voice.

They all stared at her-- Aunt Faith's lips went very white-- Uncle Jem turned-- Aunt Nan sobbed some more-- and Uncle Jerry said, "Take her to bed. They'll be time for this in the morning." But Cecilia refused to be budged.

"What is wrong?" she cried. "Is it Father? Tell me-- or I shall fly to pieces!"

Even Grandmother and Grandfather did not know what to do, and stared at her helplessly. It was Blythe who stood and went to Cecilia, placing a firm, strong hand on each of her shoulders.

He knew that she must be told. It is more hurtful to keep the truth from someone than to tell them. She must not be lied to-- she must be trusted to know-- but he did not relish the thought of being the one to tell her. Still, he felt that it must come from a friend. It takes some people a lifetime to grow up-- some never finish the job-- but in that moment Blythe Meredith felt himself change from a boy into a man.

"It is not your Father," he said in a calm voice. "Uncle Shirley is fine. But we had a telegram-- Aunt Una--"

"What about Mother?" Cecilia whispered. "What _about _her?"

"She tried to-- she hurt herself-- God help us all," said Aunt Faith wearily, suddenly leaning her head on her shaking white hand.

"What?" Cecilia cried. "Blythe-- what is she saying? What does she mean?"

"She cut her wrists," Blythe said miserably, watching her face crumple, and wishing with his whole heart that it did not have to be so. "She must have found the knife and hidden it, they think-- she did it on purpose. She meant-- she meant to--"

"To kill herself?" Cecilia screamed. "You can't mean-- that _Mother_-- would try to _kill _herself!"

From their silence, it seemed that that was exactly what they meant.

"Oh God no!" Cecilia cried, slamming her eyes shut. Her head-- and heart-- were spinning madly. "Oh, _God_, why would You let it happen?"

"Catch her, Blythe!" said Uncle Jerry, but Blythe had already rushed forward to gather Cecilia in his arms as she fell. She clutched wildly at her throat as she did, breaking the string that held Sid's beads fast around her neck. They scattered all over the floor, like so many tears that she did not shed.

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A/N: I'm sorry-- this is a depressing chapter. I did not want to do this to Una, but I needed a way to make it so Cecilia could stay on the Island-- also, I have another reason and it'll be made known later in the story. I'm sorry if I've upset anyone too much but I want you all to know that Una _will_ be fine in the end.

For those of you who think that Una never would have done it, remember that she has lost a child-- and to get Walter's letter on top of that, even if she didn't love him anymore, might have been too much for her. Also, she's in a mental hospital and probably sedated, and not thinking too clearly or rationally.

Anyway, just wanted to apologize if this was too much for anyone, and reassure you that Una _will_ be well.


	16. This, Too, Shall Pass

The weeks following Christmas seemed longer and colder than usual. The grownups tried to be cheerful, for the sake of the children, and perhaps, for themselves. The effect was morbid, and horrible. Uncle Jerry's sermons lacked the elegance and wit that they usually had, and he spent long afternoons locked in his study reading Psalms of lamentation. Aunt Nan seemed distracted, and Uncle Jem threw himself into his work. Aunt Faith made several mysterious visits to the mainland, and returned pale and wan, with her mouth set in a grim line, without presents for the girls, as she had promised. Grandfather Meredith was crazy with worry, and often sharp with his grandchildren, whom he had never been sharp with before. They did not know what to think of it! Only Grandmother Blythe remained calm and comforting, though there was something behind her eyes that showed how she really felt.

That Christmas had been one of the worst Ingleside had known-- worse even, for those who remembered, than that first one at the House of Dreams after little Joyce was lost. For days Una's life hung in the balance-- The rest of the small fry had been told that Aunt Una had had an accident, but nothing else. Still, they knew something must be dreadfully wrong to cause such upheaval, and all prayed like mad though Cecilia could not sit still long enough to form a coherent prayer. "Please, don't let her die, God," she said over and over and hoped that was enough.

Sometimes Joy's eyes turned on Cecilia watchfully and that poor maid wondered if Blythe could have told her what he knew. But no-- he wouldn't have done that. He couldn't have, when he knew it would hurt her so. It felt terrible to doubt Blythe.

Cecilia got used to feeling terrible, though. It was such an effort to pull herself out of bed in the mornings, and even more to make herself surrender to sleep at the end of the day. When she did she was greeted with nightmares-- terrible nightmares where she was lost in a crowd and could not breathe. Susan was sometimes in these dreams-- Cecilia could not see her-- could never see her-- but she heard her calling.

"I wish I didn't know the truth," she said angrily after one-too-many sleepless nights. "It would be so much-- easier-- to think that Mother was just ill."

Grandmother Blythe just smiled with her eyes. "But, my darling Cecilia, you would have known in your heart of hearts that the truth was being kept from you, and would have hated us-- and branded us as grownups-- for it."

Cecilia knew Grandmother spoke the truth. She thought, then, that she should turn her anger toward Mother. How could Mother have done such a thing! But she did not have the energy.

She did not tell Sid anything about it, though what he heard through back channels cannot be verified. Still, Cecilia never spoke of it. "I don't want his pity," Cecilia told herself. Several times she tried to talk about it with Blythe, but the moment she mentioned her mother she felt weary-- too weary to go on. She began to look pale and great circles popped out under her eyes. She ate hardly enough to keep a bird alive-- much less a growing fifteen-year-old girl. A doctor friend of Grandfather's, visiting from Summerside, saw her, and said concernedly to Grandfather,

"If she was one of my patients I'd watch her-- closely-- she looks a mite too consumptive for my taste."

And Grandfather cursed himself for being too distracted to notice. Why, Doc Johnson was _right_. Perhaps it would be best if they kept the girl out of school until she looked a bit stronger.

Cecilia did not resist. She had "fallen out" with most of her chums, who knew nothing of what was going on in her home life, and decided that, for some reason, Cecilia had become decidedly _un_fun. She had gotten a reputation for being haughty and morose, and it was useless to try and cheer her up. After a while, only Trudy, Cathy and Nellie Douglas continued to try to.

So she haunted Ingleside during the day, helping Grandmother with chores and taking long walks up the hill to the manse, or down by the harbor. Several times she stared at the dark water and thought how _easy_ it would be to tumble down into it. She wouldn't have the strength to pull herself up and out. She wanted to go to sleep and sleep for a thousand years. Is this how Mother had felt? If so, Cecilia did not blame her for doing what she had done.

Grandmother noticed the girl giving in more and more to her thoughts. She hardly touched her schoolbooks anymore, and Anne Blythe, a great lover of learning, could not stand to see such a brilliant mind go to waste, even in the face of such sadness. Something had to be done.

"I could try to teach her myself," she said pensively. "Or Nan could-- it would be nice for her to dust off her B.A. Only I think that it will take a firm hand to reach her-- and I've always been too gentle to be a really effective teacher. And Nan is too distracted with worry herself-- what _is_ to be done?"

She thought long and hard about it, to no avail, until Aunt Faith mentioned, in passing,

"I think I know someone who'd be willing."

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So Miss Branston came to the house three times a week to guide Cecilia in her studies. Her months on the Island had not mellowed her, as they had Cecilia, at first, but made her tougher, and touchier. "Let's not pretend we're here to have fun," said Miss Branston firmly, but not unkindly. More tiredly, than anything else. Cecilia understood _that_. "I'm here to teach you-- I don't want to-- and you're here to be taught-- you don't want to, either. But your Grandmother is paying me a good wage and I need it, so here I am."

"This is the _last_ thing I need," thought poor Cecilia, remembering Miss Branston's harshness back at school in Montreal. But as the weeks went on, she found that when she was with Miss Branston, she didn't think about anything but her studies. Miss Branston was too stern and pushed her too hard to let her thoughts fly free. It was a nice reprieve. Cecilia threw herself into her schoolwork with a vengeance, and soon not only caught up with her peers, but surpassed them.

Cecilia would recite for Miss Branston each afternoon, and then the two women would walk silently through cool, dark Rainbow Valley, thinking their own thoughts. Until one day, Cecilia mentioned some of her own-- she forget exactly what-- Miss Branston answered her query, and the two became cordial-- yet diffident-- confidants. Cecilia found that Miss Branston did not pussyfoot around like so many other grownups. She told the plain truth, no matter how badly it stung. But she did not _leave_ her pupil stung-- she offered up whatever sensible comfort she could to make it better. Cecilia found her cold brand of logic more comforting than promises and platitudes.

"I shall miss this, when Grandfather says I can go back to school," Cecilia remarked one night-- when a hint of spring was on the wind. Rainbow Valley seemed to feel it, too, and was waiting, expectant, for the time to blossom forth.

"I shall, too," said Miss Branston fiercely. "And not only the salary-- though heaven knows I need it. I spend my days cooped up indoors with a crochety old woman and my thoughts. It's funny that neither are as good companions as you, little Cecilia."

"I wish you wouldn't call me _little_," said Cecilia wearily. "Miss Branston, I feel so _old_."

Cecilia had not _told_ Miss Branston about Mother -- she had only hinted-- but perhaps Grandmother had, or perhaps Island gossip had filled in the rest of the details, because Miss Branston took Cecilia's little hand in hers and said, "This too will pass, my dear." It was the first kind thing she had ever said to the girl, and Cecilia was warmed by it, but it was not so kind that she felt pitied. Cecilia hated being pitied. Anyway, Miss Branston did pity the girl though she didn't dare show it--wise Miss Branston!--but not nearly as much as she pitied herself. She knew that when you were really old it was impossible to feel that you were-- she herself felt tremendously young and helpless, even though she was old, or was getting there, at least.

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Cecilia was sitting out on the verandah with Grandmother one March twilight, ostensibly reading her Latin grammar but really just enjoying the night that was falling. The wet, wind smells of early spring acted like a balm on her soul, along with the love-note she had gotten from Sid in that day's mail. Sid had been a duck through this whole thing. Perhaps he had heard through the grapevine about what was bothering her, but if so, he had never said, or pressed her for details. He stayed the same old, wonderful, comforting Sid that he had always been-- with _maybe_ some added tenderness in his eyes and smile.

Miss Branston had been right-- Cecilia now believed that this, too, would pass. It was harder to believe during the day than the endless, indefinite night, but when she believed it, she really _did_ believe it. Things _had_ to get better. The alternative was too hurtful to bear. But she was still not as strong as Grandfather would have liked, and the dark circles still shadowed her eyes, which Grandmother did not like. Though they did make her great blue eyes look even deeper and more alluring. So perhaps it was Grandmother who had arranged things-- perhaps it had been thought of by someone else-- but whoever had done it, a small, solitary figure began to make his way up the Ingleside lane.

Cecilia did not see him at first, though Grandmother peered through her glasses and said nothing. The two ladies of Ingleside sat in the sun and kept on talking and enjoying the first warm afternoon of the year. And the man walking up the lane kept on walking.

Then suddenly a ray of sunset light broke through the clouds and Cecilia looked up to see Rainbow Valley bathed in a warm glow-- and-- and-- something else-- some_one _else!

"Father!" she cried out loud and ran joyfully to the gate, where he was struggling with the latch. Struggling perhaps because his eyes were clouded with tears at the sight of his dear little girl-- whose own eyes were heavy and sparkling with all the tears that she had not shed since the horrible news had touched her.

"Oh, Father, dearest!" Cecilia wept. "You're here-- you are-- and you don't come with bad news because you're smiling-- oh Dad, I've missed you so-- _so_-- so much it _hurt_!"

"So have I, darling," said Shirley Blythe, drawing his girl close, and thinking how strange it was that even though he had her near, now, there was still a pang of sorrow in his chest.

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A/N: I hope this chapter makes up for the last one. Thanks for all of the reviews and sorry if I made you cry!

Lovejag: thanks for the offer of help. I did a bit of historical research on this myself, but decided to throw caution to the wind. Mainly, I don't think the Blythes would have kept secrets from Cecilia. I think they would have told her the truth about what had happened to her mother, rather than have her hear it from someone else. Also, Anne was always very big on telling children the truth without being too harsh.

There will be more Cecilia/Shirley moments in the next chapter, so read on!


	17. After the Rain

It had rained the night before, but when Shirley Blythe woke the clouds were gone and the sun was shining steadily down on the watery world. There were leftover raindrops and dewdrops everywhere, and the sun was taking advantage of them, scattering prisms of rainbows all over creation. He thought, as he dressed and let himself out of the still-quiet house, of the passage in the Bible where God sent his rainbow as a covenant that no more harm should come to his people. He was strangely comforted by this.

And what better place to look at rainbows than Rainbow Valley? He made his way slowly there, taking a roundabout route so that he could pass all of the places that he loved-- the Four Winds Light, the old House of Dreams garden, and a quiet little house that slept amidst the apple tress at the end of the Harbor Road. When he got to Rainbow Valley he was surprised to see a long figure already there-- a girl in a white dress, sitting on the very green grass. For a moment, he thought he had stumbled into a dream and was seeing the ghost of Una, as she had been before.

But then the apparition spoke.

"Father!"

When had his little girl gotten so womanly? Where had she learned to tilt her head in that knowing way-- when had her gap-toothed smile of yore changed to that secret, subtle, _wise_ one? Surely she couldn't have changed so much just in the months that she had been away-- it must have been happening all along, and he had never noticed. Shirley sat down next to her cautiously and felt as shy as he had with feminine creatures in the days of yore. If he hardly recognized Cecilia on the outside, it was certain that he would not be familiar with her on the _inside_, either. He had once been able to know all that she had thought, and now he did not have the slightest inkling what was going on beneath her cap of shining black hair.

They sat in silence for a while, and watched the sun burn the rainbows away as it rose higher in the sky.

"I am-- so-- glad you're here, Dad," said Cecilia, taking his hand, and realizing that her Father was too amazed at--well, _something_-- to speak. So she must. "But-- dearest of all Dads-- why did you come?"

Her inky blue eyes and feathery brows were furrowed with concern and Shirley's heart turned inside out. She was too young to be always expecting bad news-- always bracing herself for the worst! In that moment she looked very young-- like his old Cecilia-- and he slipped easily back into the old camaraderie they had shared.

"You've been told what's--happened," he said. "I'm glad-- some people say children shouldn't know about things like this, but I wouldn't have wanted to keep things from you, Cee. But you don't know _all_ that's happened, and I wanted to answer any questions you might have. But not over the telephone-- in person."

He had cut right to the chase, without dallying around with pleasantries. That was his way. Cecilia sighed in relief-- and dread. She was not sure how much more she wanted to know.

"I suppose," she faltered. "I suppose I want to know-- oh Dad! How could she do it? I just don't see _how_ she could _want_ to do it!"

Shirley said, "I hope that you'll never understand that kind of pain."

"We all--miss-- Susan," Cecilia went on, large tears beginning to tumble quietly from her eyes. "But it isn't fair-- for her to want to leave _me_, too! Don't I count for anything to her, Dad? For so long after Susan died she took no notice of me-- it was as if I had died, too-- and I felt like a ghost! I'm still her girl-- and I'm still alive--_I'm still alive_!"

All of the pent up feelings that Cecilia had felt for the past weeks-- months-- in the entire year since Susan had been gone-- filled her heart and overflowed. She wept a torrent of tears into her Father's shoulder.

Father let her cry herself out. "Cecilia," he said, when she had come to the end of her crying jag. "You mustn't-- hate-- your mother."

"Hate her!" Cecilia said fervently. "I don't hate her-- could never hate her. I _love_ her! That's the point."

Shirley nodded. "There is an old legend," he said pensively, almost more to himself than Cecilia. "Long ago a group of people built a city near a waterfall-- it was very loud-- louder than the brook babbling to itself down amongst those trees. This waterfall didn't sing-- it roared. The people of that little city had to shout to be heard over it. Well, it must have been very loud and distracting at first, but over generations the townspeople got used to its rumble, until the day that a visitor came to the town. 'How do you stand living so close to that noise?' he shouted to the townsfolk. 'What noise?' they shouted back. They'd grown so used to it they didn't even hear it anymore."

"That's Cicero," Cecilia said, wiping her eyes. "Miss Branston and I read it together last month. Go on, Father, please?"

"Grief is like that waterfall," Father said. "Though I'd give my last breath for it never to touch you, darling girl, there will be grief in your life-- there is some in everyone's life. Some people grow so used to living with it that they don't notice it anymore, like the waterfall in the story. Grandmother, for example. She had a hard life before she came to Green Gables, and then she lost little Joyce-- and Walter-- but you'd never know it from looking at her. Some people find a way to adapt, and to go on. But some people--"

"Get swept away in the current," Cecilia said. "I understand, Dad. But-- I suppose-- I always thought Mother was stronger than that."

"She _is_ strong," Father said. "She had to be to get this far. But she has had a very difficult life, Cecilia. She lost her mother at a young age-- she was just young enough to remember her, but not old enough to have learned to do without her. To lose Susan was just the cap to her sorrow. There was so much pain for all of us during the Great War and she-- and-- and--"

Shirley broke off there, perhaps thinking of a little, bloodstained book of poems.

"And what, Dad?"

"Cecilia," said Shirley, "There are some things that Mother will have to tell you for herself, some day-- not because you aren't grown up, or trustworthy, now, but because she is not yet ready to tell them."

"I understand," Cecilia said sweetly, and tucked her own arm into her Father's and the two walked back toward Ingleside. "She-- won't-- do it again, though, will she, Dad?"

"No-- she won't--she won't hurt herself again, not while there's a breath in me," Shirley swore, in a low voice.

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The other grownups had breakfast on the table when they got back. Because Father had to fly out that afternoon, this was their one chance to have the whole family-- well, almost the whole family-- together for a meal. The grownups had their shining morning faces on, and the littlest of the children, Hannah and Nancy, half-drowsed and half-examined their unfamiliar uncle through half-closed eyes. Everyone was nicer in the morning, because they were too enthralled with the new day to spoil it by fighting.

Each one of them had news for Shirley of Cecilia-- news that she was too shy to pass along herself and news that he drank in gladly. Had Shirley heard that his daughter had sung the National Anthem at the Veteran's Day celebration, Aunt Faith wanted to know. Well, she had, and they were all still talking about it. Had Bruce told him what a capable nurse she was? Aunt Nan filled him in on her studies, and Aunt Rilla on her fashions. And she was so close to Mary Vance's two little urchins--who weren't really urchins as you'd expect, but sweet-as-pie girls-- they were thick as theives. Even Blythe joined in and told his uncle how Cecilia was so knacky at helping him find difficult rhymes for his poems.

Then Joyce spoke up.

"Has Cecilia told you about her boy-friend, Sid Gardiner?" she said, and then took a delicate bite of her eggs and chewed happily.

Cecilia flushed red with embarrassment, Aunt Nan hushed Joy with an angry, "Now miss, Uncle Shirley has far too much to think about that your gossip, I'm sure." Blythe turned a dagger-like glare on his sister. The young fry giggled.

Maybe Shirley could tell that Joyce relished telling him Cecilia's secrets, maybe he was far-away in thought what she's said did not fully register with him. In any event he said, quite calmly,

"Oh, how nice. Too bad I won't get to meet him this time around. Pass the bacon, Jem, please, old sport? Thank you."

Joy's triumphant smile fell off her face. They all began talking about Shirley's travel plans and Joyce was forgotten, except by Owen and Jake, who made faces at their cousin when the grownups weren't looking.

"Ain't it nice to see Joy get hers?" said Owen with relish. He had often been on the receiving end of his cousin's jabs and did not envy Cecilia her position.

"Yes, but who knew Uncle Shirley would take it so well?" said Jake, a trifle glumly. _His_ father was always saying that if any boy laid a hand on Merry, he'd give him what for. Weren't all Fathers like that? So Jake had been expecting fireworks.

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"Goodbye, Ingleside!" Father called as he loaded the car.

"Oh, _don't_," Cecilia implored him. "Don't say goodbye, Father-- I want to pretend that you're only going for a drive and will be back by dinner. Goodbye sounds too final." She threw herself in his arms.

"I'm not in the habit of believing everything I'm told," Father said solemnly. "But Cee--do you _really_ have a boy-friend?"

Cecilia suddenly wished her father _would_ say good-bye, and be gone with him!

"Ye-ees," she said miserably, with a red face.

"Hey!" said Father with a smile. "No need to act embarrassed that you have a beau-- as Mary Vance once said to Auntie Rilla, 'There's more reason to be embarrassed if you _ain't_ got one.' Well, is he a nice fellow?"

"Sid Gardiner is--lovely," said Cecilia with a faint glimmer of pleasure.

"Gardiner, you say? From Silver Bush, huh? Good family-- went to school with Tom Gardiner. Does he still have that full, ridiculous beard? Well, Cee, if you're happy, then I'm happy, too. But dearest-- I feel left out. How come everyone knew about it but me?"

"I was afraid that you would be sad-- or mad-- so I didn't tell you."

"There was your first mistake. There's nothing that will make me sad or mad enough that you can't tell me. I'm glad my girl is happy." Father gave her a kiss and got into the car. "But," he said with a grin, starting the engine, "If he lays one hand on you, I'll 'give him what for,' as Jem is so fond of saying."

Cecilia waved and waved to him until the car was out of sight, then collapsed against the porch rail, feeling spent. It had been nice to see Father but-- oh, Shakespeare was right. Parting _was_ such sweet sorrow!

"I can't help but think when we'll see each other again," she said-- and shivered.

Shirley was thinking the same thing. He _had_ to get his girl home soon. She was becoming more and more a stranger to him with every day that passed.

"And I'm lost without her," he admitted. "I'm lost without my girls."

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I'll love you if you read and review. xxxooo


	18. The Mysterious Uncle

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Miri, because she wanted some more of Cee and Miss Branston.

CLLW: Thanks for the review! I'm glad you're enjoying the stories. I really, really would like to find a way to bring Walter back, but I won't because I don't think LMM would have wanted him to-- and also, I don't think I could write a really good, plausible story about it. But if you want to read one, check out Once, of Ingleside. It's GOOD.

Strawberry Lip Gloss: I promise that all will be made known about Una soon. I'm planning on tying up that part of the story shortly. I definitely won't keep you hanging for the sequel.

Gufa: Una was sent to the hospital because she was depressed. And I've got an idea about why Sid would go from Cecilia to May Binnie-- but I'm afraid you might have to wait for the sequel to find _that_ out!

Thanks to all of you who reviewed. They are so appreciated!

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Time _did_ heal all wounds-- or, if it didn't heal them completely, it at least scarred them over so that they did not hurt so much. Cecilia was sitting in their makeshift schoolroom in the parlor, actually thrilling at the beauty she felt all around her, when Miss Branston plopped down beside her. Miss Branston, too, had changed in the passing months-- her mouth was still grim and just that morning she had noticed with cycnicism that there was the first faint trace of ash in her blonde hair. But she who had once thought all young people nuisances, now thought about how truly dear was the one sitting beside her.

"Did you do the reading I assigned or have you been staring into space since I last left you?"

Cecilia smiled dreamily, and quoted,

__

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

"Of _course_ I did the reading, Miss Branston-- and _oh_, it was so lovely. For the first time in my life I truly understood why Blythe commits so many poems to memory. Aunt Nan says that his mind is too full of poetry for anything else, but _I_ know how he feels. I want these words with me always! I only have to think the words to get a shudder of beauty all over me. 'If I can stop _one heart_ from breaking I shall not live in vain!"

"I knew this would happen when we covered Dickinson," said Miss Branston crossly.

"Oh, Miss Branston! You can't tell me that you don't like Dickinson!"

"I 'spose I do," said Miss Branston dryly. "Since one is almost labelled a Communist if one doesn't. I will at least keep up the charade."

"Which do you like the best? I like 'A Narrow Fellow in the Grass'--such a funny picture!-- or 'A Light Exists in Spring'--it does, Miss Branston, and you know it! But 'Because I Could Not Stop for Death' gives me a chill-- a beautiful chill, but a chill all the same."

"Hey, you monkey!" Miss Branston tugged gently on Cecilia's hair. "I thought you asked me which _I_ liked!" She was silent for a moment and then said, eyes sparkling with something that was decidedly _not_ mirth,

__

Heaven is what I cannot reach!

The apple on the tree,

Provided it do hopeless hang,

That "heaven" is, to me.

The color on the cruising cloud,

The interdicted ground

Behind the hill, the house behind, --

"There Paradise is Found," finished Uncle Bruce. He was standing, silhouetted in the doorway, with a hungry look in his eyes. "I'm dreadfully sorry to interrupt you, ladies," he said lightly. "Cecilia, pet, where's your Grandfather? I want very much to speak with him."

He addressed Cecilia, but his eyes watched Miss Branston.

"Oh! Well, if you _want_ him we must get him for you," said Miss Branston in a dangerous, choked voice. She stood tremblingly and made a show of looking under the settee and in the cupboards by the hearth. "Let us find him for you! No, not under there-- nor in there-- perhaps he is up the chimney, like Santa Claus. Hold tight, dear Bruce, we shall find him-- you know it positively-- since you always get everything that you want."

"Sit--DOWN," Uncle Bruce said sternly. "Penny, now is not the time for this."

"Oho, so saith Lord Meredith! So I must obey. No, no, don't speak, let me predict it. Next you will ask if we can finally let bygones be bygones and be 'pals' again. You think that because Cecilia is here I won't disgrace myself and will acquiesce quite prettily. Well, I won't! Cecilia knows me-- I have nothing to hide from her-- Bruce Meredith you can go to-- to--"

"Miss Branston, _don't_," Cecilia implored.

"To _hell_!" Miss Branston finished with a very red face. Then dropped a kiss on Cecilia's cheek. "Sorry, dearest."

"A damned stubborn woman," said Uncle Bruce, turning to an invisible audience.

"You mustn't say such things to each other!" Cecilia cried. "I don't care if you _do_ hate each other. Why-- there has never been-- _that_ kind of language--in _Ingleside_!"

She looked horrified, as if the house would shake down on its foundation after such a display, and without being able to help it, Miss Branston's mouth quirked up at the corners and Uncle Bruce began to laugh.

"It _isn't_ funny!" said Cecilia in horror. "Why-- just _imagine_--if Grandmother had been able to hear you."

"Fifteen thinks us very foolish, Bruce," said Miss Branston. "Perhaps we are. No, don't try to say anything. I _will_ make a truce with you, though you've ruined my life. See, I can say it quite casually now! For Cecilia's sake, and for mine, too-- or, rather for the sake of the ghost of the girl I used to be. There's something rather poetic in forgiving those who've wronged you. _Don't_ you dare shake my hand though-- I'll bite it! As if we _liked_ each other."

"We did, once upon a time," said Uncle Bruce, putting away the proffered hand.

"No," said Miss Branston, gathering up her books. "I never like you, Bruce Meredith. But I did love you-- once. Read Millay for Thursday, Cecily darling,"

She breezed out, and they heard her greet Grandfather Blythe who was coming in as she went. But Uncle Bruce made no move to get up. He seemed to have forgotten his reason for interrupting them in the first place.

"She did love me-- _did_," he said, more to himself than Cecilia. "Oh, I wonder if I can make her love me again?"

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"What went wrong with you two?" Cecilia closed her poetry book and turned to Uncle Bruce that night after supper. "You-- and Miss Branston, I mean."

"I-- don't-- know, exactly," Uncle Bruce said. "You've heard from the aunts the bare bones of the story-- but it is more than that. And-- less. I suppose you don't understand why I didn't just let her have the scholarship."

"No, I don't," said Cecilia forthrightly.

"I don't myself," said Uncle Bruce, scarcely believing he was having this conversation with his slip of a niece. But somehow-- it felt good to tell it. "The long and short of it was that I wanted it. Father doesn't have as much money as everyone suspects-- what little he has should be kept. But underneath that, I suppose I was-- tired-- of being seen as always second in the class. Penny was first, you know. Always. And underneath even that, I did not want her to go-- she was Penny, and was sweet and simple and smart as a whip. Going to university would change that-- it would harden her and replace her sweetness with cynicism and sophistication."

"But that has happened anyway, now," Cecilia pointed out.

"I know," said Uncle Bruce. "But a young people do not always think rationally. Though-- you do, Cee."

"Maybe it's only the men, then," said Cecilia. And then, plainly, "Uncle Bruce, you were wrong."

"I see it now," Uncle Bruce smiled wanly. "We don't remain stupid always, us men. That is the worst part. I suppose I could pay her back, for the scholarship money. I have some saved, from my time out West at the logging camp."

"She wouldn't take it," Cecilia said glumly. "She is too proud. But oh, if this were a movie you would bump into a man on a street-- he would turn out to be a long-lost uncle of Miss Branston's-- you would introduce him-- and would put her through school where she would take top honors. Then she'd have to be grateful to you for finding him!"

"What a boring movie that would make," said Owen, who had come out onto the porch in time to hear the last statement. "No automobile crashes-- no gunfights."

"We are having a private conversation, Owen darling," said Cecilia gently.

"No--no, we're done for now. I--must be off, I have-- to go," said Uncle Bruce distractedly. He set off toward the manse, and Owen sat down to tell Cecilia how she might improve her movie idea, with all the finesse of a young Hollywood director.

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"Won't you stay to dinner?" asked Grandmother Blythe of Miss Branston as Cecilia showed her to the door after one of their lessons. "Cecilia has been telling me of your views on Gertrude Stein and I would so like to discuss them with you."

The rest of the group at the table-- Grandfather Blythe, Grandpa and Grandma Meredith, and Uncle Bruce-- nodded in agreement.

"Oh--" said Miss Branston. "I cannot-- though I would love to. But I have errands to run in town-- I'm having some new dresses made. The truth is, Mrs. Blythe--" she trembled with nervousness and pleasure. "The truth is, I am afraid I shall not be able to finish the year out with Cecilia."

"Oh, no!" Cecilia cried. "Miss Branston, I thought we agreed you would stay on with me through summer!"

"I can't," said Miss Branston with real regret in her voice. "Oh, don't give me that look, you urchin, you'll be fine back at the school. You'll knock their socks off. They'll want to bump you up two grades, not one. But I am going away."

"Away!" they all chorused.

"Yes," said Miss Branston proudly. "You see, I'm going to finish the spring term at Redmond."

"Oh, Miss Branston, how?" Cecilia clapped her hands in delight.

"It really is the most amazing thing," said Miss Branston, sitting reluctantly in the chair that they pushed toward her. "A few weeks ago I received the most amazing letter-- from a man who refers to himself as "Mr. X." He is a history professor at Queens and remembers me as a student-- I've been wracking my brain to think who he was, and can't for the life of me remember! He has nominated me for a scholarship-- and I've won it!"

"Imagine that!" said Uncle Bruce happily, slapping his knee.

"The most unexpected part," said Miss Branston with a happy but disbelieving smile, "Is that apparantly this Mr. X is a long-lost relation of mine-- an uncle, he says. Mother has no idea who he could be-- the only uncle I have on her side is my Uncle Frank, in Montreal. But he could be one on Father's side. We know--so little-- about his family. But I am determined to find out who it is, and I shall have the chance! He wants me to write him weekly to let him know of my progress, and I will!"

"How lovely for you," said Grandmother Blythe, covering Miss Branston's hand with her own. "We will miss you, though, dear. And I'm sure your Mother will, too."

"Hang Mother," said Miss Branston cheerfully and irreverantly. "She will miss me only as a nursemaid. But I told her-- I told them all-- that I won't miss another chance to _live_. Oh, I've prayed for this-- and God has finally answered my prayers. I thought he wasn't listening-- but he was."

"He is always listening," said Grandpa Meredith.

The others expressed their delight, but Cecilia had gone very red. "May I see you outside?" she said coldly to Uncle Bruce.

"Why, certainly!" Uncle Bruce made a big show of raising his shoulders in confusion. Cecilia pulled him to the parlor by his shirt cuff.

"Oh, Uncle Bruce!" she hissed. "What have you done? I know you wrote the letter-- don't deny it."

"I won't," said Uncle Bruce cheerfully. "Yes, I am the long lost uncle! I took your advice, Cee. Isn't she happy? Her whole face seems more alive than it ever did."

"She is _going_ to find out it's you," Cecilia said through gritted teeth. "And then she will hate you more than ever. Oh, Uncle Bruce, you can't toy with her this way-- she is not a cat you can dangle a string in front of! I never expected you'd take me seriously."

"It's all going to be right," Uncle Bruce said, placing his hands on Cecilia's shoulders. "I've covered all my tracks. One of my old school chums _is_ a professor at Queens-- he's going to forward me her letters, and I'll write nice, uncle-y epistles back. From the elusive Mr. X. I'll tell her-- one day-- and she won't be able to hate me anymore. So don't worry, Cee! Come on, let's go get dessert. Hello, folks! We're back from our covert meeting-- Penny, you look lovely and cosy in that green coat, sitting by the fire. You must get that dressmaker to fix you up in a gown of that shade to take with you when you go!"

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	19. Trysting

A/N: Thanks for the reviews!

Ipegasus- Thanks for reviewing! I'm so glad you like the Winken, Blinken and Nod poem, too-- I love so many different poems and it's a joy to be able to work them into this story. I was a poetry major in college and have always loved the way LMM's characters love poetry as much as I do.

Personally, Shirley is my favorite of Anne's boys. Jem was always too sure of himself and Walter a little too dreamy. My own husband (though he looks JUST like Gilbert in the movies) is a lot like Shirley, and so when I think of Shirley, I always see James in my mind's eye. He's played a lot into the character development. And I always felt, too, that it was sad the way Susan "took over" Shirley's childhood. One of the only times in the story that Anne really seems to be Shirley's mother is in RoI, when he announces he's going off to war and she says,

"Two of my sons have gone and one will never return. Must the war take you, too?"

Truthfully, Susan is not my favorite LMM character. She's too-- prosaic and solid. I'll try to work some scenes with Anne and Shirley into the story, just for you.

Gufa: Thank you for the compliment, friend. I'm going to try to tie up most of the loose ends here, with Una and Bruce and Penny, but the story of Sid and Cecilia might have to wait for the sequel!

Queen Kathrine: Hail, fellow Catherine! Shirley and Bruce are two of my favorites, too. Bruce was so sweet in the books, a lot like Walter. I haven't been able to write him that way-- somehow he ends up flippant and humorous instead-- though very perceptive. But he always idolized Jem, so maybe he picked up some mannerisms from him throughout the years. I also feel the same way about Di-- I always liked her more than Nan or Rilla. I wrote a fanfic about Di meeting Jack but I might rewrite it. I'm not satisfied with it at all.

Karen: Thank you!

Strawberry Lip Gloss: I'm sorry you don't like the Miss Branston-- Uncle Bruce love story as much. Hopefully this chapter will have something for everyone-- a little Blythe and Cecilia, a little Penny and Bruce, with some Cecilia and Sid thrown in for good measure. So, darling, this chapter is for you.

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"The twilight is a balmy sea-- the stars are ships; the winds, the tides." Cecilia lay back against the trunk of the Tree Lovers and quoted from one of Blythe's poems as night descended on Rainbow Valley. Somehow it seemed to always be dawn or dusk there, no matter how bright and sunny it was anyplace else. But it truly was dusk now, and Cecilia thrilled at how perfectly Blythe was able to capture mood and magic by stringing together a few commonplace words.

The two had been in Rainbow Valley all day, setting Blythe's poems to music. Cecilia would sing them, and Blythe played the melody on his violin. He had neglected it over the school year but now that summer was here again he was determined to make up for lost time.

"Music is the _soul_ of poetry," he had explained to Cecilia, who again delighted in his choice of words.

"You should be a concert singer," he said to her now. "You have such a pretty voice-- peoples' voices always remind me of flowers. Mother's is a pink peony-- Joyce's a daisy-- Grandmother's a lily of the valley. But yours is everything that is beautiful and lovely-- yours is a rose."

Cecilia laughed and squeezed his hand in silent thanks. "I don't know," she said. "I always think people are being polite when they tell me I have a lovely voice-- that they'd prefer to stick their fingers in their ears and run away if they could. I never thought I could sing, not since once when Leslie heard me in the parlor at home. I had been cleaning there all day and sang to pass the time, but she wanted to listen to a radio show and I suppose I was disturbing her. She stomped furiously downstairs and shouted, 'Stop--_stop--STOP _that caterwauling!' What flower is Leslie's voice, Blythe?"

"A branch of holly with red berries, all brightness and gloss," said Blythe automatically. "What will you be-- when you grow up-- if not a singer?"

"I--I think I'd like to be a doctor," said Cecilia pensively, putting her finger against the dimple on her chin. "Or a nurse, if people are determined to stand in my way. I like to help people, and make them well when they are ill. It's like that poem Miss Branston and I read,

_If I can help one fainting robin_

_Into his nest again_

_I shall not live in vain_."

"I'll fight like a tiger to keep you from it," Blythe said crossly.

"What!"

"I will." Blythe's jaw was set stubbornly. "There is no _poetry_ in doctoring-- only sickness and ugliness-- terrible things that shouldn't be seen by a soul such as yours."

"No, no!" Cecilia cried. "The way that the human body works-- the way it fits together-- it _is_ lovely, Blythe. And knowing someone is getting well _because of you_ is the best feeling in the world."

"It's a God complex," Blythe said in a lofty tone. "And Father says it's evil to want to feel like God."

"No-- it doesn't make you feel like God-- rather that God is working _through_ you," Cecilia clarified furiously. "And when you felt sick after eating those green apples last year you were happy enough to see Uncle Jem's medicine bag then. You didn't ask for poetry at _all_ then!"

"I was bodily ill then. A doctor helps the body-- a poet soothes the soul," was Blythe's retort. "And everyone knows it is the soul that counts."

"Oh, but they go hand in hand," Cecilia said, suddenly far away. "The body experiences beauty-- the soul appreciates it. Like when the sun shines on you, or when you feel a breeze ruffling your hair or when someone-- when--someone--"

"When someone kisses you?" said Blythe coolly.

"Yes," Cecilia flushed. She had not meant to say it. "Those are all wonderful feelings. They're _living_ poetry. Haven't _you_ ever kissed anyone Blythe?"

Cecilia tried to keep the curious note out of her voice. For a moment, a shot of-- _something_-- ran through her, something hot and sharp, like jealousy. The thought of Blythe kissing any other girl made her feel jealous! But she would not admit that even to herself--that would make her as bad as Joyce, always wanting Blythe to love her above all things. So Cecilia only acknowledged that it made her feel strange. But then Blythe said, "No."

"Why--why not? Haven't you ever _wanted_ to kiss anybody?"

"Of course," said Blythe matter-of-factly. "There is somebody that I want to kiss _dreadfully_."

_Who? _But Blythe would not tell her. Cecilia sighed and thought. "But--does--she want to kiss you?"

"No," said Blythe, and leaned his chin pensively on his hand.

How dear he looked, with his shaggy light hair sticking up all over his forehead, his high, broad forehead wrinkled in thought, and his upturned nose with the smattering of freckles on it over red, red lips. His gray eyes were like the sea: open and unforgettable and full of depth.

Cecilia felt a sudden burst of anger toward the nameless girl.

"What a little fool she must be, then!" she cried.

"No," said Blythe. "She is many things--wonderful things -- but she is not a fool."

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Bruce Meredith heard their little voices and turned away with a regretful smile. He would have liked a walk through Rainbow Valley-- that magical place always soothed _his_ soul when it was turbulent. Blythe was right about beauty doing that. Wise little things! How he envied them-- they still had their whole lives in front of them, like the clean, uncut pages of a book. Bruce's face was youthful and unlined-- he still walked with a spring in his step at not-yet thirty—but right then he felt that the pages of his life were wrinkled and smudged with fingerprints, the corners folded down and yellowed with age.

"What deep thoughts you must be thinking!"

Without realizing it, Bruce's feet had taken him across the Glen, past the House of Dreams on the outskirts of Four Winds, and down to the light. Where he had used to tryst with _her_, so long ago. But here—and now—she was!

"I've come to say that I forgive you," said Penelope Branston seriously. "I didn't know until I saw you just now, but now I know that's why I went out for a walk tonight."

She had been in to town and brought back a new dress, a dress she was wearing now. A green dress, like Bruce had said she must get, the yellowy, new green of spring leaves. It made her hair look like spun gold. When she had come to the Island it had been cropped severely, but now it had grown and jaunty, graceful curls grazed her shoulders. Bruce wanted to take her in his arms but dared not. She had been willing to let him, once, but who knew, now? Even forgiveness could not bring back love.

His eyes must have looked his question, because Penelope answered it.

"It wasn't your fault, Bruce, and even if it was, it was as much mine," she explained. "I let down my guard—I shouldn't have—I stopped looking at that brass ring for a second-- just a second—but when I looked back it was gone. And in some ways, I'm glad. I've learned a lot doing things that I didn't want to all these years. And I never would have met Cecilia if I had gone away to school—she is young, but she is a _friend_. She's my only friend, you know—but she is a _good_ friend.

"But oh, I wish," she said, with a sweet sigh, "That I would know it would work out while I was doing those unpleasant things. It would have made them more—_palatable_. So I forgive you, Bruce—and what's more, I forgive myself."

Bruce found his voice."For what?"

"At times I doubted God," said Penelope lightly. "But I see now that he has a way of providing. He has given me this uncle, this elusive 'Mr. X'--and he has given me another chance—and he has given me a _life_. So come, Bruce, will we shake hands now, in friendship?"

They did—and something in the moonlight—or in his heart—compelled Bruce to draw her small hand to his chest and lower his head to meet her lips. But when they met, she drew back and wrenched her hand away. It was as if an electric shock had gone through her, and the lovely, tranquil Penny he had been looking at only moments before was

trembling and white.

"Oh," she said. "Oh, how mean of you to do it! When you _know—_you must—that your love is like a fetter to me—you know that I cannot leave knowing you care! And I must leave! You want to hold me back again, Bruce—oh, how mean! No, I won't stay for this!"

She picked up her skirts and ran, and the last light of the day hit her hair and turned it to the sun itself. Bruce suddenly remembered what she reminded him of, in that dress. It was a poem he'd read when he was in school himself.

_Nature's first green is gold_

_It's hardest hue to hold._

_It's early leaf's a flower_

_But only so an hour. _

_So leaf goes down to leaf_

_So Eden sank to grief. _

_So dawn goes down to day. _

_Nothing gold can stay._

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Cecilia stopped to drop off a book for Nellie Douglas and stayed to supper at Mary Vance's urgings. It was a happy, boisterous meal, with Mary Vance telling old stories, jumping up to serve them, the girls gossiping and Marsh, the youngest boy, telling jokes. Mr. Douglas sat solidly and quietly throughout it, like the calm in the middle of a hurricane. But he had a kindly smile for everyone. Mary Vance made Cecilia stay for dessert even though the poor damsel was stuffed to brimming, and would have had her stay all night—indeed forever, wasn't she dear Una's girl?--if Cecilia had not begged to be allowed to go home before it got too dark.

But it was dark by the time Cecilia got to the Shore Road, and for a moment she felt turned around and lost. There was a light far off in the trees and Cecilia pulled her sweater more tightly around her thin frame.

"Hello! Who's there?"

It was Joyce! Cecilia hurried toward the light.

"Oh, I'm glad to see you!" she said, not caring that Joyce would make fun of her for being so silly and young. "It was so dark—I wasn't sure if I was going the right way--"

But Joyce did not make fun. She nodded understandingly, if not absently.

"These old branches do cast eerie shadows," she said. "Come on, you can walk with me to the manse. Why don't you stay the night? It's Saturday tomorrow and Mother was just saying this morning that you spend all your time at Aunt Rilla's. And Blythe will like to see you. Why are you just standing there? Come on!"

Cecilia had stopped in shock. Was—_this_—Joyce?

"Where have you been?" she asked casually, resuming her step. It must have been someplace wonderful to put Joy in such high spirits.

"At Gabby Penhallow's," Joy said—and blushed. "Cecilia do you—do you think Jake Penhallow is handsome?"

"Jake Penhallow?" repeated Cecilia wonderingly.

"You know Jake—he was in the school play last term. And he's on the rugby team--"

"Oh, yes!" Cecilia nodded. Jake Penhallow was a long, lean chap with reddish hair, a roguish grin and snapping green eyes. "I—suppose—so."

Joy sighed. "We were talking about our plans for the summer—he's going West to work on his uncle's farm—and I said something about how I wished it could be summer all the time, and _he_ said," Joy gathered her breath with a smile, "_He_ said I didn't have to worry because my 'eternal summer shall not fade.'"

"That's Shakespeare," Cecilia pointed out.

"I know that," Joy said with some spirit. "But it's the fact that he _said_ it. Do you think that he likes me?"

"I don't see how he couldn't," said Cecilia truthfully, studying Joy's beautiful face in the light cast by the flashlight.

"Oh, I hope he does," Joy sighed. "I hope so! Who's that up ahead? Whoever it is, I wish they wouldn't spoon on the Shore Road. It's so tacky—and unromantic."

"I—know who it is," said Cecilia in a hard voice. She recognized that red scarf—it was the red cap that Sid had got for Christmas. And those blonde curls—!

"May Binnie!" Joy gasped and raised her chin in the air.

"Don't say anything," Cecilia begged but it was too late. The couple—who were not spooning actually, but having a heated conversation—had looked up and seen them staring.

"Cecilia!" Sid said with a broad, relieved grin, and Cecilia might have gone to him, might have walked the short distance separating them, if May Binnie had not looked up, then, with a cat's smile. Cecilia stood as one paralyzed, trying to make sense out of it.

"Walk on," Joy said in a low voice, taking her arm and dragging Cecilia along. "Hello Sid," she said loudly, and coldly. And then, with false cordiality, "May Binnie! What are _you_ doing out so late!"

"Sid was seeing me home," said the destestable Miss Binnie. "Weren't you, Siddy?"

'Siddy' realized that Cecilia was watching him with blazing eyes and shook off May's arm. But Joyce wasn't stopping anymore to talk.

"Better hurry along, then, May," she said cattily herself. "You wouldn't want anyone to get the _wrong idea_."

She fairly dragged Cecilia down the road until they were safely around the bend. Then Cecilia stopped and slumped against a tree.

"She's always wanted him—she's got her claws in him," said Cecilia dully. "Oh Joy—I'm going home, I think. I don't think I'm in the mood to spend the night tonight—not tonight."

"It might not be what you think," said Joy sympathetically.

"But it might," said Cecilia bitterly. "Thank you for walking me home, Joy. I—couldn't have borne it alone." It was not much of a thank you--it sounded choked and hollow—but it was all she could muster.

She turned and fled. When she was halfway to Ingleside she realized that truly—she meant it.


	20. Where There's Life

Who knows whether or not Sid Gardiner slept that night? Surely May Binnie did—with the same contented, smug smile on her face. Joy did—though she thought fleetingly of the stricken look on Cecilia's face before slipping into dreams about Jake Penhallow. Blythe awakened at midnight feeling that _something_ was wrong—without knowing exactly what. We do not know if Cecilia slept that night or not. She has never said. But a traveller going along the road by Ingleside that night might have seen a light burning steadily in one of the windows.

Sid came by Ingleside the next morning, almost before anyone was up. Grandfather had gone out on a call, and Cecilia had slipped out of bed like a wisp of smoke and gone to watch the sun rise on the verandah. That was where Sid found her. She looked up at him with a set face and wounded eyes, but made no move to go to him and shrank from him when he tried to drop a kiss on her cheek.

"It wasn't what you are thinking," he said, by way of greeting.

She said nothing with her voice, but her eyes questioned him.

"I _was_ seeing her home," Sid said.

"Oh," said Cecilia.

"But only because Father made me!" Sid dropped down on the step beside her. "May is always coming by to Silver Bush—she's there almost every day now that Pat is home—she likes to pretend she and Pat are friends—when Pat can't stand her. But she doesn't come to see Pat she comes to see—"

"You," Cecilia finished.

"Yes," Sid admitted.

"She's _always_ hanging around you!" Cecilia exploded. "What does she think I am? Why don't you tell her to run away, Sid? Every time you let her do it and say nothing it _encourages_ her—and makes me feel like—like you might _like_ her! You Silver Bush people—why don't you tell her to _get lost_?"

She looked like, as Browning had written, 'all spirit and fire and dew.' Sid clasped her hand.

"That isn't the way it's done at Silver Bush," was all he said, but Cecilia slumped in acquiescence. They had a certain way of doing things at Ingleside, too.

"But do you swear it?" she said. "That you're telling me the truth?"

"I swear it," Sid said. "It isn't May Binnie I care about—in a thousand years I couldn't love May Binnie as much as I love _you_."

"Oh, Sid!" Cecilia said, and threw herself in his arms. "I love you, too."

Grandmother found them there, much later, and threw open the door with a wry smile.

"Isn't it a bit early for spooning?" she questioned with a small laugh.

"Oh!" Cecilia and Sid sprang apart. "It—it isn't what you think, Mrs. Blythe!"

"I know exactly what it is, you young things," said Grandmother aimably. "But oh, be glad there is no Mrs. Rachel Lynde in this day and age. Sid, would you like to stay for breakfast?"

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"What are you pouring over, dearest?" Auntie Faith laid her hand against Cecilia's hair and reflected how very much like Una's it was.

"A letter," said Cecilia, looking up with wet lashes. "It came in the post today—it's from Mother."

Faith put a slim hand to her throat. "Will you—could you--?"

"I'll read it to you, to all of you! Uncle Jem! Aunt Nan! Everyone! Come here?"

"A letter from Una!" Cecilia waited until they were all assembled in the kitchen and then read, eyes and face all astar.

_Dearest Cecilia,_

_There is a little robin redbreast outside my window, celebrating the spring. Can it be spring again? Last spring I wanted to sink into the pillows and sleep forever. Today I want to go out. Does it smell like wet earth in Rainbow Valley? Are the bells in the Tree Lovers ringing? March is supposed to go in like a lion and out like a lamb. June goes in like a lamb and out like an angel. It is the sweetest month of all. You were born in June, dear one, and so it will always be the sweetest month to me._

_Have you grown much? Would I recognize you if I saw you on the street? The girls who work in the hospital have outrageous hair-cuts—darling, promise me you won't do anything outlandish with your hair!_

_Today is the sort of day that reminds me of the text, 'Ye know not what the day may bring,' I am reminded that the days do not always bring sorrows—sometimes they bring joy._

_Your loving_

_MOTHER_

Cecilia read the last with a quaver in her voice. She passed the letter to Aunt Faith, who read it over again hungrily. "She sounds better—thank God, she sounds better!"

"Thank God," Uncle Jerry reiterated. "I'm going to get Carl on the long distance."

Cecilia looked very strange. "It was a sweet letter," said Grandmother, putting her arm about the girl. "Walter said once that Una was in love with spring—that she was the only person he ever knew that loved it as much as he did. Cecilia? Cecilia—darling?"

Cecilia put her head down on the table and cried and cried—and laughed. She sobbed as if her heart was breaking—and laughed as if the sun was shining in her heart.

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Cecilia was sixteen on the twentieth of June. Grandmother asked Cecilia if she would like to have a party at Ingleside.

"Are you sure?" Cecilia gasped. "Grandmother—it will be so much work—"

"How many times do you turn sixteen?" Grandmother said with a smile. So she and the aunts got to work, cleaning and cooking and writing out invitations. "This is going to be a party that _is_ a party," Aunt Rilla said.

"What was your sixteenth birthday like, Auntie Rilla?" Cecilia asked.

Rilla laughed. "Horrible. It was during the war—we ate slept and breathed war. There was no time for parties. I hope you will have a sweet, carefree sixteen."

Aunt Rilla's voice was full of laughter but her eyes were worried. More and more news came every day from overseas about Hitler's powerful army. Rilla looked out into the yard and heard the shouts of her boys in Rainbow Valley. Gilly's loud laugh and Owen's yells. She clasped her hands together like the Rilla of Ingleside of yore.

"Please God," she whispered. "Let them _all_ have carefree sixteens—let them have many, many happy years."

Though Hitler's armies might have their eye on Poland, at Ingleside they were scrutinizing the guest list.

"Cathy and Nellie Douglas, of course," Joy said, making a tick mark next to their names. "And Alice Flagg—Helen Elliot—Gabby and Amy Penhallow—and—and—?"

"Of course I want Jake to come," said Cecilia with a smile.

"Well we could hardly leave him out," Joy said in a no-nonsense voice, trying to hide the flush creeping up her cheeks. "We're inviting the whole junior and senior classes. What about Sid Gardiner?"

"Yes," said Cecilia laconically.

"Yes?" asked Joy.

"All is well," said Cecilia.

"Good!" said Joy. "See, I told you it would be."

The girls shared a companionable smile and Aunt Nan shook her head.

"They have secrets from us, Faith," she said in mock despair.

"Good," said Aunt Faith. "Every young girl needs a secret or two."

"Let's go and plan where we'll put the fairy lights," said Joy, dragging Cecilia and Trudy from the kitchen.

The women watched them go, dancing together between the trees like wood-nymphs. "Let's make this a party to remember," said Grandmother, laying her hand against the pane. "It will be Cecilia's last birthday at Ingleside—I've had a letter from Shirley."

"Una?" Aunt Rilla asked.

"Is almost well enough to go home," Grandmother clarified. "Shirley will come for her soon—by September, I'm sure."

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The party was a wild success. Even before it was over everyone knew that. Never had Ingleside been so full of light and music and dancing and laughter and pretty girls and handsome boys. Joy caught up with Cecilia during one of the dances and whispered in her ear. Jake Penhallow had asked her to be his 'steady.'

"I've got a present for you," Blythe whispered, as Cecilia sat out a dance at the refreshments table. It was the first time she had sat out all night—her feet ached and her pretty silver slippers were almost worn through. She smiled prettily at Blythe, though. He held out a small, folded piece of paper. She took it—their fingers brushed—and Cecilia thought again of the girl Blythe had said he'd liked. Was she here? Was it Cathy Douglas? She'd danced with him twice—though she'd danced with Gil _three_ times.

"Cecilia! There you are?"

Cecilia drew her hand back and dropped the paper Blythe had given her in her lap. "Sid!"

"Hi," he nodded companionably at Blythe, who scowled, then turned back to Cecilia. "I've got a present for you," he whispered.

"What is it?" Cecilia laughed, and whispered back.

"Come with me to Rainbow Valley. I'll give it to you there."

Sid pulled Cecilia to her feet, and she gave Blythe an apologetic smile. In her haste, the folded paper he had given her fell to the ground, unnoticed.

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The moon was shining down on Rainbow Valley, bathing everying in a lovely pearly sheen—like the pearls Sid was fastening around her neck.

"To replace the sorry yellow beads I gave you at Christmas," he murmured. "But _these_ are real."

"Real!" Cecilia touched her hand to her throat. "But where—how—?"

"They were my Mother's when she was a girl," Sid said. "I told her I wanted to give you something _meaningful_—she told me I might have these."

"Oh—Sid," Cecilia's heart thumped with the implication of it all. "I can't—I don't think—"

"You can," Sid said. "You already have." He stood back in the moonlight and looked at her gloatingly—a vision of loveliness in blue silk, with a nimbus of light around her neck—that _he_ had put there.

"Look at my Cecilia!" he called, raising his arms to the spirits of the night. "Look at her—look at her—and see how lovely she is!"

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"_What_ a party," said Joyce with a yawn. "The best part of being the birthday girl is that you don't have to clean up."

"Nor does the birthday girl's guest," Cecilia smiled shyly. She had asked Joy to stay the night as a special treat. She had wanted Joy instead of Trudy because—well, because tonight she felt close to Joy. It was such a difference from the way things used to be.

"Look at my feet!" Joy stuck out one dainty golden-slippered foot. "I've worn them through."

Cecilia stuck out her own foot in her tattered slipper and laughed.

"What a magic night!" Joy said. "A night wind—I love a night wind, don't you?—a crescent moon—and thou. It's your birthday for fifteen more minutes by the hall clock—happy birthday, Cecilia."

She held out a small parcel, and Cecilia took it, and opened it. A very pretty enamel charm on a thin gold chain was nestled inside.

"It's nothing compared to Sid's pearls," Joy sighed.

"It's lovely," said Cecilia, and fastened it, too, around her neck. "And I have something for you, Joy."

"It's not my birthday!" Joy protested.

"Still," Cecilia said, and handed Joy and envelope.

Inside was an old photograph of two small girls. One with midnight black hair, and one with chestnut brown. Both were smiling, and both had their arms around each other.

"Is that—us?" Joy asked. "But it can't be."

"No," said Cecilia. "It's your mother and mine. There are no pictures of us because we didn't like each other for so long."

"We didn't?"

"I didn't think you liked me—until just recently," Cecilia admitted.

"I love you," Joy said. "You're my cousin. But I was jealous—I was jealous of how—close—you were to—"

"To Blythe," Cecilia finished.

"To Blythe?" Joy looked shocked. "No. I was jealous because of how close you were to _Grandmother_."

"Not Blythe?" Cecilia could not believe her ears.

"No! Blythe is my brother—he'll always be," Joy said slowly. "Of course we love each other. But you get to live with Grandmother—she always took such care with you—the rest of us she sees all the time but you, hardly ever until you came. I was afraid you'd be her favorite."

"That was silly," Cecilia said truthfully. "If anyone has enough love to go around it's Grandmother."

"I know that now," Joyce said. "I suppose I also thought—that you couldn't possibly like _me_. I knew you loved me—cousins are supposed to love each other—but you're so wholesome and sweet. I could never be like that in a million years. It made me feel so—so woefully in adequate."

"Joyce," said Cecilia, taking her cousin's hand. "_You _are wholesome and sweet. Like an apple blossom—you're beautiful _and_ you're good."

"I guess I've been stupid," Joy admitted.

"I guess we _both_ have!" Cecilia amended. "We've wasted so much time. Let's go to bed, dear—my birthday is ended, finally. I'm exhausted—but I'm going to snuggle under the covers and stay up and talk with you. I've got a backlog of secrets to share with you, dear—months and months of them!"

"Oh, and I have, to you!" Joy said. "Did I tell you what Jake said to me while we were waltzing—?"

Whispering and laughing, the girls climbed the stairs together.

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A/N: I hope this makes up for some of Joy's previous behavior and explains somewhat why she acted that way. That's all for now, folks, but Cecilia and Joy are going to be friends from now on.


	21. Letters and Plans

A/N: I like doing the authors notes at the beginning of the chapter. It doesn't look as nice but it keeps you in suspense!

I'm glad so many of you like Joy now. She is Nan's daughter after all, and so is probably very proud. Plus it always seemed to me in the books that Nan had trouble making friends with people because of her pride, but also because she seemed to live in a world of make-believe.

Ipegasus: I'd never confuse you with Jenny Penny! (What a good fanfic that would be-- one about how SHE turned out!)

Gufa: I hate May Binnie, too, but unfortunately she'll have to show up in the sequel. You'll find out about Blythe's present below.

Arie: I don't know who Blythe likes...... hee. Please scroll through some of the other reviews and read some articles posted by Emma on first-cousin relationships. Also, if you've read A Tangled Web you'll see that LMM often puts cousins together. Hope that isn't too much of a hint about how this will all turn out! I like Sid, even if none of y'all do!

Miri: "I don't want Cecilia of Ingleside to end"... that is the nicest comment I have ever gotten. Thank you for making MY day!

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_6-21-39_

_Cecilia, _

_You left this behind last night. How does it feel to be sixteen?_

_-Blythe_

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Cecilia unfolded the paper that was lying on her pillow and read,

To Cecilia, on her Birthday

_Far in the mellow western sky,_

_Above the restless harbor bar,_

_A beacon on the coast of night,_

_Shines out a calm, white evening star;_

_But your deep eyes, my 'longshore lass,_

_Are brighter, clearer far. _

_The glory of the sunset past_

_Still gleams upon the water there,_

_But all its splendor cannot match_

_The wind-blown brightness of your hair;_

_Not any sea-maid's floating locks_

_Of gold are half so fair. _

_The waves are whispering to the sands_

_With murmurs as of elfin glee;_

_But your low laughter, 'longshore lass,_

_Is like a sea-harp's melody,_

_And the vibrant tones of your tender voice_

_Are sweeter far to me._

When Cecilia had finished reading, there were tears in her eyes. She did not know what they were doing there. Her heart beat wildly--painfully--and she pressed her hand to it.

"I--won't--feel like this--about _Blythe_!" she said.

But the truth was, she could not help it. Sid's pearls were around her neck but her dearest present was in her hand right now.

"I wonder," she murmured, pressing the paper to her lips. "I wonder if _I_ am the one--if Blythe means that--oh, I'm being silly! Of course he doesn't mean anything by it. It's just a flattering poem, is all."

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_26 June 1939_

_Dearest, darlingest Cecilia, _

_Oh, how I miss you! Redmond is very lovely but it is no Ingleside. I don't know how your aunts and uncles could bear it when they went away to school. My own home isn't half so nice but I'm longing for it like crazy. _

_I feel terrible. My clothes are provincial, I've already got a reputation for being stuck up, and I feel out of sorts and haven't made one friend_. _How Inez Miller would laugh at me if she knew my only friend in the world was a shy, shining girl of sixteen? Inez Miller is the class sweetheart. She wears dresses that really _are _dresses_.

_But--somehow, I'm happy. My classes are wonderful. My teachers are wonderful. Every morning I wake and drop down by my bed and say, 'Thank God--thank God!' Me, who didn't pray for ever so long! I'm afraid I'm also getting the reputation for being terribly religious, but I don't care a whit what people think of me. I'm just happy to be here._

_I go around all day feeling like there is a lamp burning bright within me. _

_Hide it under a bushel? No! I'm going to let it shine..._

_PENELOPE BRANSTON, B.A.-to-be_

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"I had a letter from Penny today," said Uncle Bruce, as he and Cecilia sat by the babbling brook in Rainbow Valley. They had not done much talking--the brook was laughing and singing enough for both of them. His voice was so low that Cecilia almost missed it.

"So did I," she said. "She seems to really _like_ Redmond."

"She sounds more alive than I've ever remembered her," said Uncle Bruce.

"I still don't think--you should have lied to her about the scholarship," said Cecilia staunchly. "You could have given her the money as a loan--she would have paid you back, Uncle Bruce."

Bruce shook his head.

"I don't want to own her mind," he said. "Her heart--and soul--already belong to me."

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_10 July 1939_

_Dear Cecilia, _

_My, you've been gone so long I can hardly remember what you look like! I've got a beau now, too, so you needen't put on airs when youre back at school this fall. His name is Robert Mackay. His mother is a Wilmington of Toronto. I suppose that's good. Mrs. Oates said that to mother in a hushed tone when Mother told her I'd been going round with Bobby. And Mother said, "For heaven's sake, Amelia, she's only 15!" But Bobby and I love each other _deathlessly.

_I don't believe that Joy has really become nice, after all, but if you start liking her better than me I'll give you something to remember and it won't be pleasant! Ma says I can have a new blue coat for fall. What color are you getting? One of the pink velour ones would be nice, but you don't have the complexion for pink. Dad is reading over my shoulder and says that isn't a nice thing to write, but you don't. You know that, don't you? I'm going to go now because I don't want him to read what I wrote earlier about YOU KNOW WHO._

_Won't it be fun to have you back in school this year! Last year was just aweful without you, Cee._

_Love, LESLIE ROSE MEREDITH_

_PS: Give grandma Rosemary a hug for me. _

_PPS: And all the aunts and uncles and cousins and everybody, too. _

_PPPS: Except Joyce. _

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"What a wonderful thing it is to love--and be loved!" Joy sat back against a pile of cushions in the manse parlor and sighed. She and Cecilia had poured over every line of Jake Penhallows latest love-letter to Joyce, wrestling every drop of meaning they could from even the most innocuous words. For example, he signed the letter, "Your Jake." Had he left the "s" off intentionally, or by error? Even if he hadn't meant to, surely his subconscious had meant to convey that his heart belonged to Joy. And he had written, "Dearest Joy." _Dearest _was ever so much more meaningful than plain _dear_.

"Uncle Ken twitted me when he heard me talking about Jake," Joy went on. "He said, 'Isn't John Knox a bit young for you, Nan?'"

Cecilia laughed, thinking of impish Jake Blythe wooing the tall, stately Joyce. "What did you say?"

"I said that we Blythes and Merediths don't have to marry our cousins like the Dark and Penhallows of Rose River."

"What did he say to that?"

"He laughed, and said I'd better watch myself if that was true, because Jake's cousin, Lindsay Dark, of Three Hills is his age exactly. The Darks and Penhallows do have such a way of marrying in the clan-- do you think they'll all hate me because I'm an _outsider_?"

"No!" Cecilia laughed. "I've said it before and I mean it-- I don't see how anyone could hate you. But surely you and Jake aren't talking about marriage--already?"

"Don't be _silly_," Joy said witheringly. "Of course we aren't--not seriously, anyhow. But I do mean to marry him one day. We'll buy one of those little bungalows in town and I'll stay home and keep house, and Jake will help his grandfather at the bank."

"And you'll have a white picket fence and 2.5 children," Cecilia laughed. "But don't you want a career, Joyce?"

"No, I'd rather be a wife and mother. Merry is wild to go off to Queens this year, but I'm like Aunt Rilla. I want a lot of kids. Only-- Jake says he's thinking of enlisting."

"And you don't want him to?"

"Not with what's going on over in Europe!" Joy shook her head vehemently. "Uncle Jem says its just a matter of time before Hitler does something rash--then England will jump in-- and we'll have to fight. And at that Mother clutched her chest and said, 'No--no!' and Aunt Rilla said Uncle Walter's name twice, in a very low voice."

"Do you think there will be another war, Joy?"

"What do I know about it? I have a policy, when it comes to politics and war: I don't think of them when I can help it. I'd rather think of rainbows instead. Look at that one, shining right above us! Let's see if we can run and find it's end."

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_July 24th, '39_

_Dear Mother and Dad, _

_Enclosed find a ticket for Cecilia, to Charlottetown by train. She'll be able to pick her plane ticket up at the counter once she gets to the airport. I've arranged for her to leave the Island on the 20th of August, which should give us enough time to get her settled in at home before school starts. _

_Una's coming home next week. She seems to be looking forward to it, and we plan on coming out for Christmas if she is well enough. Or perhaps for the new year. _

_I cannot thank you enough for the care you have taken with my girl this past year. I know this time on the Island will be something that Cecilia always remembers. You have given her some joy when he world was very bleak. _

_I've been thinking of you both lately, especially with the news coming from Europe that sounds so dire. We have kept faith, like Walter asked us to, haven't we? Although some times it seems harder than others. _

_Love & miss you both. _

_SHIRLEY_

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"I've planned a lovely day for us, dear," said Grandmother to Cecilia one balmy August morning. "We're going down to the shore-- we'll walk up and down the dunes and share secrets-- then have our lunch at the light. After that we'll go for a stroll in Rainbow Valley and pick violets-- and if this was Avonlea we'd finish the day back at Hester Gray's garden, but since it is only Four Winds and the Glen, the yard at the old House of Dreams will have to do. The late roses are out, Rilla tells me."

"That sounds lovely, Grandmother!" Cecilia clapped her hands, and the two set off hand in hand, Cecilia holding a basket of thin, delectable sandwiches and other delicacies. There were two different kinds of cake. If Susan Baker had been alive they would have certainly brought with them some of her monkey-face cookies, but since she was not, a batch of Aunt Nan's rhubarb tarts would have to do.

After a while of walking and secret-sharing, the grandmother-and-daughter stopped to eat their lunch, spreading an old sheet on the sandy walk in front of the light. Cecilia looked up at it with a sigh.

"There are no lighthouses in Montreal," she said. "Thank you for today, Grandmother--it is so wonderful to be chummy with you like this-- but it makes my heart sad, too. I'm going home soon, aren't I?"

"Yes, dear one," Grandmother said. "And I am glad that Una is ready to live again! BUt I'd much rather you stay here."

"I would, too," said Cecilia. "Of course I'd rather be where Mother and Father are-- but I wish that they would stay here. If _you_ had had a home like Red Apple Farm, you'd stay there, wouldn't you?"

"It _is_ a dear house," Grandmother admitted. "With shadowy corners-- and mystery and charm-- and dappled branches casting joyful shadows. But your house in Montreal is very grand."

"It's too grand," said Cecilia glumly. "It's too big and cold-- and not half so dear as Ingleside. And I'm afraid, with Susan gone, it will seem even more so."

"Like Old Highland Sandy said to us once, when all the boys were off: 'Your house will be seeming very big the day.'"

"And I don't want to leave Sid--and Blythe--and Joy and Trudy and the Douglases, and the aunts and uncles, and grandmother and grandfather Meredith-- and _you_!" Cecilia said in a burst. "Oh, it was unfair of Father to send me here, I think. It would have been hard for me to be home without Mother, but it will be harder still to leave this place-- and all the places I have come to love-- and all the _people_ I have come to love. It's been positively _Purgatorial_."

"Well you needn't worry about me, dearest," said Grandmother. "We could be separated by leagues upon leagues of land and sea and I would always be near to you. And you and Bly and Joy will only grow closer with age, and Trudy and Cathy and Nellie can come and visit during holidays.

"As for Sid," Grandmother's eyes sparkled, "It puts me in mind of an old saying. If you love something, let it go. If it comes back, it's yours to keep.' If your young love can survive a separation, then the Fates give you their blessing. If not, then they frowned upon it in the first place and it is better to be rid of it."

"My head knows that everything you're saying is right," Cecilia sighed. "But my heart still aches at the thought of leaving."

"Then _don't_ think about it," said Grandmother sensibly. "Let's think of beautiful things instead-- like that one golden cloud over the sun-- or the way the air seems to be full of mysterious scents and tang. Good heavens, Cecilia, who is that?"

For a figure had gone by them on the Shore Road in a blur. It seemed to be a woman, and she was riding astride a horse, the skirt of her dress flapping as she flew past. Cecilia had seen her face-- it was like a thundercloud.

"Oh-- no!" Cecilia cried. "Grandmother--forgive me--I've _got _to get over to the manse before she does! I'm sorry to spoil the picnic-- I'll tell you all about it later."

Grandmother did not seem disturbed. "If you go cross lots you'll be there in time!"

Cecilia hitched up her skirt and set off running.

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I'm tempted to leave it here! Who is the woman? Why is she thundering toward the manse? I'm sure you can figure it out.

The poem Blythe wrote to Cecilia was really written by LMM! It's called "My Longshore Lass." I hope she wont mind me borrowing it.


	22. Romance and Regret

"_Bruce_--MEREDITH!" Miss Branston's voice was like a gong as she jolted off of her horse and flew inside the manse. Her face was like a thundercloud. Cecilia was hot on her heels.

"Uncle Bruce! Uncle Bruce!" she cried, to warn him, and then had a terrible moment of indecision, for the horse Miss Branston had ridden over on wasn't tied to anything. Suppose he ran off? Cecilia recognized him as Mack Douglas's old nag. If she ran off, Miss Branston would like be in trouble. But if she didn't get inside and quick, Uncle Bruce would be. And she hated to admit it, but Cecilia had a nose for gossip, and it was telling her now that she didn't want to miss a moment of this!

Cecilia looped the horse's reins over the fencepost and flew inside in time to see Miss Branston deliver two short slaps to Uncle Bruce's very pale face.

"What is the meaning of this, Penny!" said Grandmother Rosemary quietly but severely, and Grandpa Meredith rose from the chair in which he had been reading the paper and began to go to her. But something in Penelope Branston's face stopped him. She did not answer Grandmother, but instead gave a long, low wail.

"You!" she cried, pointing a trembling finger at Uncle Bruce. "It was you--all along-- how you must have been laughing at me! And you!" She whirled on Cecilia. "Why didn't _you_ tell me, at least? How could you let me do it, Cecilia?"

"Leave her out of it," growled Uncle Bruce. "She had nothing to do with it."

"So you don't deny it!" Miss Branston turned to face Cecilia and the stunned Merediths, who looked like they had been visited by a cyclone. "Let me tell you what happened, then," she said facetiously and with overblown emotion, like an elocutionist to her audience. "I've received seven letters in as many weeks from my 'uncle,' the dear Mr. X. Each one was so positively positive and encouraging that I thought--I _must_ visit him in person. And they were familiar, somehow, too, those letters, but I chalked that up to the fact that the writer was a family _relation_! So I went down to Queens yesterday-- on my week-end off," Miss Branston turned back to Uncle Bruce.

"There was no one there, in the whole History department, who knew anything about a scholarship. No one with my Father's last name-- nor my mother's. No one in the History Department, or English, or Sciences, or Maths who could possibly be my uncle! I visited them all, trying to piece together this mystery. I took the train back. Then a very cold feeling came over me-- I took out the letters and re-read them. Certain phrases jumped out at me. Then I went home and took _these_," Miss Branston waved a sheaf of letters in the air, "Out of their storage and read them over. 'You have certainly brushed up against the touchstone of knowledge,' writes Mr. X. 'Dearest Penny, your eyes are a touchstone of beauty'...writes _Bruce Meredith_! 'The joy of learning makes the heart as free as the _wind in the eaves_,' writes Dr. X. 'When I am with you I feel as free as the _wind_ _in the eaves_, again writes Bruce Meredith!'

Grandmother Rosemary began to laugh. "That's certainly Bruce," she murmured to Cecilia. "When he was a boy he thought it was 'wind in the eaves' instead of 'wind in the trees,' and we could never convince him it was otherwise."

"Stubborn," whispered Cecilia back.

"Shhh, and let's watch the show," said Granmother. "I wonder how long before they fall into each other's arms?"

Cecilia thought Grandmother Rosemary might be a bit optimistic. Miss Branston's eyes were blazing.

"And the handwriting is the same," she spat, hurling borth piles of letters at Uncle Bruce. "You didn't even bother to disguise it. Oh, Bruce! How could you!"

"I've given you months and months of hard work in that money," said Uncle Bruce, grasping Penelope by the arms. "You don't know what I did to get it-- worked harder than I ever had before! And now I want to _give _it to you, woman! Not a loan, not an investment, but a gift. I should have known you'd be too ungrateful and proud to take it."

"Of course I am!" said Miss Branston furiously. "I wanted to do it myself, with money I had earned _myself_! Whether it be through physical labor or mental. I didn't want to do it with _your_ money!"

"Marry me, then! Then it will be your money, too, and you can do whatever in hell you want with it!" Bruce roared.

Penelope Branston stomped her foot. "Fine! I will!" She burst into tears. "But oh, not only because I want your money!"

The shouting and crying stopped and Bruce and Penelope stared at each other transfixed. "Will you, really?" Uncle Bruce said, increduously.

"Yes, and you shouldn't have asked me if you didn't mean it," said Miss Branston.

"Oh I meant it--I meant it!" said Uncle Bruce and then dipped Miss Branston low so that her hair brushed the floor, and kissed her as no one had ever been kissed in that manse in Glen St. Mary. Maybe even in a manse _anywhere_ in the world.

"I believe I have some important errands to run," said Grandfather Meredith, clearing his throat and rising from his chair by way of making an exit. "I understand that congratulations are in order, Son--and Daughter-to-be."

Uncle Bruce waved a hand in acceptance of the felicitation, but did not stop kissing his bride.

"I suppose we should go, too," Grandmother Rosemary whispered to Cecilia. "We _should_ give them some privacy, even if we won't sleep a wink tonight with wondering what was said."

"Will we listen at the door with a glass?" asked Cecilia mischievously. She had seen that technique in a movie.

"Of course I won't!" said Grandmother Rosemary. "That would hardly be fitting, as a mother and a minister's wife. But _you_ may-- if you tell me what is said."

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_It was so romantic, _Cecilia wrote to Leslie, after a detailed account of the proposal itself.

_They are to be married at the end of August-- just in time for Miss Branston-- or just plain Penny, as she has instructed me to call her-- to enroll in the fall term at Redmond. Father luckily says that I might stay an extra week, which is good, because I am to be bridesmaid! Uncle Bruce has postponed finishing his doctorate and has bought a little gray, gabled house in Summerside. They are going to call it 'Wind-in-the-Eaves." Miss Branston--Penny!-- let me pick the paper for the second upstairs guest room-- they are going to keep it always as _my_ room, for when I come to visit. Uncle Bruce says they will fill it with bon-bons and magazines and books and books of poetry. He says they never would have gotten back together if it hadn't been for me, and that I deserve heaps of riches and their firstborn child for it. Anyway, I picked a silvery paper with violets, and they are having a white eyelet bedspread made, with white wicker furniture to match. _

_Penny is going to wear Grandmother Rosemary's dress-- that style is 'in' again, Merry tells me, but even if it weren't that dress looks like it was made for her. She and Grandmother Rosemary are so alike in appearance-- they are both so tall and slender and fair. And they get along famously! "She won't ever hold him back," Grandmother says happily. Uncle Bruce has had a dozen new dresses made for Penny-- all in varying shades of green and gold. He says she shall wear nothing else, for no color suits her so well as those two. She has an engagement present from him-- a beautiful yellow topaz pendant to wear with the green dresses-- and a wedding present of peridot earrings to wear with the gold. _

_Uncle Bruce worships her, and Grandpa Meredith has jokingly reminded him of the first commandment many times: 'Thou shalt have no other gods before me.' 'But it doesn't say a thing about goddesses,' explained Uncle Bruce irreverantly. He is always kissing Penny in places where he shouldn't and he doesn't care who sees. And he is always saying shocking things. He told Mary Vance that he and Penny plan on having at least five children, and that they mean to start as soon as possible. Mary Vance was unfazed. 'Good for you,' she said. 'Although I think you'd better practice a bit first.' And oh, Leslie, he told Mrs. Raymond Russell that they are having sheets imported from Japan for their marriage bed and that quite shocked her! The Russells are all hopelessly Victorian. But no one really holds it against him because they are obviously so in love. _

_Penny is the happiest I have ever seen her. "I'm reading Dickinson--and liking it, truly," she confided to me one day last week. And that is really all that needs to be said on that! _

_So we are all very happy. The elder Mrs. Branston is even happy, though she will be losing her nursemaid-- her 'slave,' as Penny says. She thinks that Grandpa and Grandma Meredith are rich-- she doesn't seem to understand that the church owns the manse, not them, and she wouldn't understand the ways in which they _are _rich. And she said, quite satisfactorily, that she is sure the marriage will last because a minister's son 'won't run' like her own husband did. She has even started going to the Presbyterian church out of family loyalty, even though the Branstons have always been Methodists! So all's well that end's well, and isn't it the most romantic thing in the world? Two lovers who thought their love was lost-- and then found it again. _

"I suppose it is romantic," the prosaic Leslie wrote back. "But wouldn't it have been more so if they'd never been separated to begin with?"

And it must be admitted that it would have been.

"But it's romantic _enough_ for me as it is," said Cecilia contentedly.

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A/N: Thanks for the reviews everyone!

Gufa: yes, Cecilia and Blythe are double cousins, but as I said before, someone posted some links in comments about Canadian laws concerning first (and double-first) cousin marriage. And if Cee and Bly do end up together I promise not to make it too "oogy" (for lack of better word!) But who's to say they will? Cecilia's still with Sid, and she _might_ fall for someone else in the sequel. Cecilia of Red Apple Farm sounds nice...if only they decide to stay on the Island.

Miri: Nope, not May! May would never do anything that romantic. And yes, I plan on having _some_ discussion of Walter before this story's through.


	23. Truth Be Told

"I've a present for you, dear," said Cecilia to Joyce, just days before she was supposed to leave Ingleside. She had asked that there be no big, goodbye celebration. Cecilia did not think she could handle that. But she had decided to mark the year she had spent in their company by giving little presents--as remembrances--to her cousins. For Trudy she had written a long letter and included with it a snapshot of them on the beach in a little gold frame. For the two Annes she got lovely hair ribbons for them to wear with their school jumpers-- they were too small to appreciate anything of real meaning and the hair ribbons would make them so happy! Uncle Ken had helped her make huge, colorful kites for the boys.

For Nellie Douglas she embroidered a little change purse, and for Cathy, the more domestic of the two, she disclosed Aunt Persis' famous cooky recipe. She and Sid had exchanged many promises and tears that would forever remain secret between just them. But Cecilia had had to think long and hard about what to get Joy.

"What is this?" laughed Joy, as she struggled with the seal on the envelope Cecilia handed her. She opened it, and laughed again to see many pieces of folded paper, covered with slanted, black writing. Then her face grew serious as she read.

"Joy is not nice, Father--I had thought Joy would be nicer, seeing as though she is a minister's daughter..." Joy's gray eyes widened and she looked at Cecilia with tears hovering on her lashes. "Is this a joke?"

"No," said Cecilia gently. "You see, Joy, these are all copies of letters I wrote to Father when you and I weren't getting along-- when I thought you hated me. I didn't know what to get you-- I wanted to get you something that mattered-- so I decided to give you the truth. I _did_ say some terrible things about you in my letters to Dad-- but I don't mean a whit of them now. I didn't think we could be as close as we could if you didn't know about me saying these things, dearest."

"Oh," quavered Joy.

"Now read this," Cecilia handed her a second envelope. "This is a letter I'm going to send to Father tomorrow--my last letter to him from the Island."

_Dear Father_, Joy read.

_What a wonderful year this has been. I don't mean wonderful as in great, or terrific, but as in _truly_ WONDERful-- it's been a year of awe, and sorrow, and joy, and inspiration. I've learned so much about myself and my place in the world-- and about others. _

_If it didn't surprise you to hear that I truly have had a wonderful year, it might surprise you to hear this: the person I am most sorry to leave, even over Sid, is Joyce. Father, I know I wrote some things about her that were not very flattering-- even if they _were_ true at the time-- I want you to know now the real truth about Joy. She is beautiful thoroughly-- inside and out. She is the person I tell my secrets to, and the person who talks to me when I need to listen and listens to me when I need to be heard. It is so sad for me to leave her, because who will sit up and whisper with me o' nights? Who will reassure me, and share my happiness? She is gentle and loyal and kind. She is a dear friend to me now, as well as a cousin, and if we were to be together always she would grow to be the sister of my soul. I know this. _

_I will reach you before this letter does, Dad. I suppose I just wanted the chance to write to you from this dear place once more._

_Love_

_CECILIA_

"Oh, darling, do you really mean it?" Joy cried. "You're not just writing those things about me to be kind?"

"Joy, if there's one thing you should have learned from me, it's that I don't say things I don't mean," Cecilia said seriously. "And if there is one thing I could _make_ you learn it would be that you are beautiful and wonderful. I think I could probably travel the world over and not find anyone as beautiful and lovable as you have turned out to be. I'm going to miss you more than anyone-- except maybe Bly-- but perhaps you a little more because we didn't have as much time together." Cecilia's voice shook and then broke on the last word.

The girls embraced, and had a good cry. When they finished, they sat in silence until the sun dried their tears. There was too much to be said, so they would just enjoy being close to one another.

"This is the best present I've ever," Joy smiled.

"Oh, but wait until you see what I got Blythe," said Cecilia with an impish smile of her own. She put her hand in her pocket-- there was a tiny shower of bells--and pulled out a leather harness strap with jingles attached. "I've got these-- to put up in the branches of the Tree Lovers. That way whenever he goes to sit under them, he'll hear the chimes and be reminded of me-- no matter how far away I am."

Joy clapped her hands. "It's perfect," she said. "The ones Uncle Walter put up so long ago are rusted and don't ring anymore. We'll take those down and put these up in their place."

"Oh, no!" Cecilia shook her head vehemently. "Joy, we could never take those bells down-- they are an Ingleside tradition. We'll just put these up, too. Let's run and do it now!"

"It's awfully high up," Joy said dubiously. When the girls were situated at the bottom of the trees what had seemed like such a good idea on the verandah suddenly seemed dangerous and impossible. "We should get Father or Uncle Jem or Uncle Ken or even one of the big boys to do it. I'm not climbing that far!"

"I wouldn't expect you to," said Cecilia with a toss of her head. "I want to do it _myself_." When she tilted her chin at that angle, she looked just like a miniature Miss Branston--who was _Mrs_. Meredith now. "Give me a leg up, Joyce."

Joyce accomodated and then stood back, her hands clasped in doubt and fear. Cecilia, who had climbed every other tree on the Ingleside property and most of the trees in the Glen with gusto, had never tackled the Tree Lovers. They were the tallest, slimmest trees, with high branches and a smooth bark without many footholds. Still Cecilia made it to the branch where the old string of bells hung and reached forward to tie the new strand around. Almost there--the branch swayed dangerously--!

"Cecilia! Watch out!"

Cecilia scrambled back to the trunk of the tree like a flash. But the branch she had been sitting on did not crack. She let out a breath.

"That was close," she laughed to Joyce.

Then there was a sickening crack. Cecilia did not know what it could be at first-- she though it must be a gunshot. But why would there be a gunshot in Rainbow Valley? _Then _she heard Joy scream--and then she realized that the branch she was sitting on had split under her weight. She was falling-- she grabbed at the other branches and Uncle Walter's old string of bells, but there wasn't anything to hold on to. She saw the ground rush up toward her and braced for the impact.

She fell to the ground at Joy's feet--there was another sickening crack--and Joy screamed again. Cecilia thought dazedly that the falling branch must have hit her. But Joy was standing over her, looking horrified and unharmed.

"Joy?" Cecilia murmured. Her lips did not quite work. "Blythe--Walter? _Mother_!"

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"What on earth is that racket?" said Grandfather Blythe crossly as the shouts rose up from Rainbow Valley.

"Oh, hush, Gilbert," smiled Grandmother. "You're grim because you're reading war news--let the children be happy and safe and untouched by it a little longer."

"It sounds like Joyce," said Blythe coming in and sitting down to read over Grandfather's shoulder.

"The neighbors are going to think we're murdering them if they keep screaming that way," grumbled Grandfather, but he, too, smiled.

"Enough of that, anyway," said Grandmother, taking the front page from her husband's hands. "Read something else-- try the funny pages. I won't have us consumed by-- Joyce! Darling, whatever is the matter?"

"Oh, God, come quick!" Joyce screamed. Her face was very pale and her eyes blazed like two burn marks in a sheet. "She's dead-- she's dead-- she landed hard and her head is at such an angle-- she's dead, I know it! She can't possibly be living! Oh God, I told her not to! Oh, _God_!"

"Who, Joyce?" Blythe took his sister by the shoulders and shook her hard enough to snap her out of it. "Who's dead? _Joyce_! Who?"

"Cecilia," Joy sobbed. "She--fell--out of the tree--in Rainbow Valley and-- her neck-- is-- all twisted."

"Good God," said Grandfather. He stood and sprinted out the door and down the hill to Rainbow Valley.

Grandmother began to minister to Joyce, who was breathing very rapidly and looked as if she might slide to the floor at any minute. Blythe started to follow Grandfather, but Grandmother held him back.

"Run and fetch Jem," she said, and then, why Bly did not move, for the first time in her life she raised her voice at one of her grandchildren. "Hurry! _Now_!"

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A/N: Aren't I cruel, to leave it here? Don't worry-- there are more chapters coming.


	24. In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! I love you guys for the reviews!

Marzoog: I'm so glad you liked the Penny/Bruce story. Penny wasn't going to be a primary character when I started writing this story, but somehow she just wouldn't stay in the background!

Adriennelane: what an awesome compliment. And thanks for the link you posted. I've been looking at it and deciding which names I like for when I have kids of my own-- though one will almost certainly be called _Anne_. Anyway, I like OO-na a lot more than YOU-na. It sounds more alluring and mysterious that way.

Terreis: I did watch the men's routine. But I was routing for Marian Dragulescu from Romania. HE WAS SO HOT. Anyway, I hadn't thought about having Cee have an Emily-like revelation. She and Una will definitely have a chat about somethings, though, and Walter will be one of them.

Arie: It _would_ be nice if Cee got to move back to the Island. You'll have to read on and see what happens...

Gufa: In the Juliet fics I wrote Cecilia and Joy seemed to be so close. I love both the characters and it hurt me to have them at odds with each other.

Miri: Cecilia's room in Uncle Bruce and Aunt Penny's house is based on my room when I was a kid. Glad you liked it...it was pretty nice. I think Bruce will show up a fair amount in the sequel. I hadn't thought about it, but I just can't let him go so I'll have to work him in. I guess he _is_ pretty possessive, but maybe he'll mellow out in time.

Miri: Cecilia definitely wanted Blythe's present to be a surprise.

Karen: Don't worry, there's more of this story to come.

StrawberryLipGloss: This chapter answers your question, so it's dedicated to you, dear.

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Late, late that night, Jem Blythe found his way down the stairs from the sickroom, to the kitchen, where the grownups were gathered in various stages of grief and worry. Jem was here to disperse their worries-- some of them. "She's going to live," he said, with a wan smile on his grim, tired face.

"Oh thank God!" Aunt Nan cried, and Aunt Rilla slumped in her chair with relief.

"Yes, thank God," Uncle Jerry echoed, folding his hands together and murmuring a prayer. "Not only for our sake--or Cecilia's--but Shirley and Una's. I don't know what would happen to them if--if--"

He did not want to finish the thought, but they all knew what he meant. Surely it would kill Shirley and Una to lose another one of their girls-- their last living little girl.

"She's concussed," Uncle Jem went on, looking gratefully as his mother set a steaming cup of tea in front of him. "And I've set her wrist--it's broken in two places--probably she put it out in front of her to break the fall. Dad's sitting up with her now-- her pulse seems steady but it'll be good to keep an eye on her. Tomorrow morning I'll call the hospital in Harmony and see if they think she should be moved. How is Joy? She seemed to be in shock. _Where_ is she?"

"I thought Joy would go into hysterics," said Aunt Nan, dashing water from her eyes. "I was just about to go for some smelling salts when she suddenly pulled herself together. '_This_ won't help Cecilia,' she said, almost to herself more than anyone else. Then she fled--Blythe went with her--I suppose they're down in Rainbow Valley. You remember how much comfort we got from that lovely old place when we were young."

"_I_ still do," said Aunt Rilla. "Right now I want to fly down there--lay myself on a bed of moss-- and cry and cry."

"Someone should call over to Green Gables," said Aunt Nan. "Di would want to know, and Cecilia and Bertha are special friends. And oh, it seems like such a shame to call Bruce and Penelope on their honeymoon but they would both want to know."

"I've already called the manse," Uncle Jerry said. "But Father and Mother are away."

"Mary Vance would go wild if we didn't call _her._ You know how much she loves Una."

"Oh, and tomorrow we should call over to Silver Bush," Aunt Rilla thought. "Sid will have to be told-- though he'll go wild with worry, probably. Poor dear! He really does love Cecilia."

"Someone should call Shirley and Una," said Grandmother quietly.

Jem stood and ran his hands though his ruddy hair-- well, it was almost completely silver now. Seeing so many cases as this one had done _that_ to him.

He knew he must be the one to call Shirley, but he must tell him what he had not told the others. That Cecilia would live, certainly-- but in what state? She was sleeping peacefully now, but he feared her sleep might be coma. And when the swelling in her brain went down, the girl _might_ never be the same again. He could not stand to be the bearer of more pain and suffering to the already-wounded man.

Jem thought for a fleeting moment of his own girls-- what if it were Merry, lying in the bed upstairs, pale and wan, with a great purple bruise on her white, white skin? A picture of little Nancy lying crumpled and twisted in the grass touched the corners of his mind and made him shiver. He had the sudden urge to fly out of the kitchen, and down the road into the Glen, to his own house, where Faith would be watching over his sleeping children. Then he could creep up to their rooms and make see for himself that they were well and safe and whole.

Jem said a very un-Inglesidian thing then. "Those damned trees should be cut down!" he spat, and kicked the chair he had been sitting on. It skittered across the kitchen and crashed roughly into the wall. Then Jem set his jaw and went to get Montreal on the long distance.

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Joyce and Blythe had not gone to comfort one another in Rainbow Valley as the grown-ups had suspected. Instead, they had crept upstairs to the darkened hallway outside of Cecilia's room, where they stayed and refused to budge. Grandfather had seen them and smiled kindly but distractedly at them as he had gone in. Uncle Jem hadn't seen them at all. He had stepped right over them in his hurry to get downstairs. Joy had thought he might stop and give them some news, but he hadn't. She was glad-- she didn't want to hear bad news, and it couldn't be good judging from the look on Uncle Jem's face.

"Oh, Blythe!" Joyce reached for his hand and held it. "The sound, when she fell-- the way she looked--all twisted-- I shan't forget it, ever. Not if I live a hundred years. It was--so--_terrible_."

"What was she doing, climbing that tree?" Blythe asked, through white, set lips. "Not even the big boys can climb the Tree Loves. Oh, why did she do it?"

"I should have stopped her--I knew it was dangerous." Joy wept now. "It's my fault-- oh, Bly, she was going to do it for you-- she was hanging a string of bells to replace the ones Uncle Walter put up-- it was a gift for you."

"_Why_ did you tell me that, Joyce?" Blythe looked miserable. "Now I will have that on my conscience for ever. If she does die, I'll have--her _blood_ on my hands. _Why_ did you tell me?"

"I love her dreadfully!" Joy was lost on her own miseries.

"So do I," said Blythe fiercely. "I love her more than anyone on the earth-- more than you and Mother and Dad, right now, because she needs it. Oh, Joy, go away and leave me alone. I've got to be alone with my thoughts."

Joy went, sobbing, and Blythe slumped against the wall.

Through the open door he could see her still, white form on the bed. Grandfather Blythe was sitting making notations in a book as she breathed slowly, in and out. But Blythe barely saw him-- his eyes were fixed on Cecilia. How terrible and dark the bruise on her white face seemed to be. The cast on her arm looked ridiculous-- far too big to hold her slender bones.

Her face looked troubled, and as Blythe moved closer to peer in, she shook her head back and forth on the pillow. "There, there, dear one," Grandfather murmured, touching his lips to her forehead. But Cecilia, in the deep, twilight world that surrounded her, refused to be quieted. Instead she cried out, and her words were a litany of those she loved.

"Mother," she moaned. "Father! Joy--Mother--Walter--_Blythe_!"

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The Glen and Four Winds are a peaceful place by night-- usually. The darkened houses sleep along with their inhabitants, for what dangers do they have in that dear place to be watchful for? The wind in the trees soothes the sleeping children, and the silent clouds drop dreams into their slumber.

But that night there were many houses where one dire light shone out, marring the dark calm and peace of that place. The House of Dreams had a light in the upstairs bedroom where Rilla and Ken Ford talked in worried voices. They were worried about their niece, and also about their own children. The House of Dreams children were famous for climbing trees. Why, Gil and Owen were regular monkeys, and Hannah tried to emulate everything they did. A stop must be put to that. There was no light on in Trudy Ford's room, but that little maiden crept to her window and was bathed by the light of the moon. She had been so cold to Cecilia these last weeks-- she had been jealous of Cecilia's new friendship with Joy. Oh, what if Cee didn't get better? Trudy wished miserably that she had apologized.

In the manse, Aunt Nan and Uncle Jerry waited up for Grandmother and Grandfather Meredith in the parlor. They were due back in the wee hours-- how awful to come home and be greeted by such worrisome news. One light shone out from a lamp on the piano but its warm beam could not pierce the chill of their concern.

Blythe and Joyce were not in their beds. Joyce had crept back up to Blythe after leaving him alone for some time, and the two slept on the hard wooden floor outside of Cecilia's room. No one had the heart to move them.

Di was up in the Green Gables kitchen after her call from Jem. Several times she went to look in at Bertie and Teddy. She could not bear to wake them only to worry them. She would wait until morning. Oh, surely there would be better news by morning?

Jem had fallen into a deep, tired sleep after looking in at his children as he had wanted to, but Faith could not sleep. She found herself thinking of Una as she sat up and mended. It was not as romantic as lying prostrate with grief, but she had to take her mind off of things somehow, and the clothes _did_ need to be mended. _Why_ were Walt and Jake such ragamuffins? Anyway, Faith was sure that Cecilia would come out of this unscathed. Because God _couldn't_ allow anything else to hurt Una. He just _couldn't_.

Mary Vance refused to sleep and did not make her children sleep, either. "We're going to sit up all night and pray for Cecilia," she said, and the girls agreed. Mary did go into the kitchen and cut them each a thick slice of cake. There was no use in being hungry while they did their praying.

Over at Silver Bush, Sid Gardiner awoke and felt that there was _something_ wrong. And May Binnie could not sleep, either. She wondered if she was chasing a rainbow when it came to Sid. _Could_ he ever love her, when there was a velvety creature like Cecilia Blythe staying over at Ingleside?

But Ingleside itself was dark and peaceful as it had always been, with its garden full of mists and fairies. It was always watchful, even when it slept, its ears pricked up like a cats. For the people inside of it were so very dear.

Not one light shone out as a man and woman got out of their car and went toward it, but when the door opened and Grandmother Blythe welcomed them in, she lit lamps and they were enveloped by a safe, consoling golden glow. The man allowed himself to be ushered into the kitchen, where he was fussed over and fed, but the woman picked up her skirts and ran daintily up the stairs. She stepped over the sleeping children in her path and leaned down to drop kisses on their troubled faces. Then she pushed the door of the sickroom open and saw that a light was indeed burning within.

She sat down in a chair by the bed, the woman did, and studied the face on the pillow that was so much like her own. How much stronger the face seemed since she had last seen it-- the last time, it had still had on it the flush of childhood, but now it was lovely and womanly completely.

The woman had thought she had forgotten how to be a mother-- it had been so long since she had acted like one. But as she looked down at that dear face, everything she'd learned at the altar of motherhood came back. She held the girl's slim, white hand in her own and crooned songs and spoke loving words as first light of the sun touched the gray sky over the harbor.

When the sun finally touched the panes of Ingleside, the girl's eyelids fluttered once--twice--and then opened to behold the face she loved most in the world. She struggled to find her voice-- she tried to lift her hand and place it against the woman's cheek. But it was so _hard_. Like moving through glue. The woman smiled, though, and picked up the girl's hand and kissed it. Then Cecilia found her voice. It came bubbling up from the depths of her soul and she said one of the names she had repeated over and over again during her time in dreamland. Only this one was the most dear.

"Mother," she said, her eyes lighting up like a flame. "Oh, Mother-- Mother!"


	25. What Might Have Been

Even Uncle Jem admitted, after Cecilia's wakening, that he had not expected her to get well so quickly, or to come through it all so unscathed. The broken wrist would take some time to heal, that couldn't be helped. But it troubled the girl very little, and she soon was adept at doing things one handed. They were amazed by other things. The day after she woke she was sitting up in bed, receiving visitors and laughing. All the cousins wanted to talk to her--even Bertie came up from Avonlea--_and_ the Douglas girls and Cecilia matched them all smile for smile and laugh for laugh. She was just so happy to be alive! The only time she came close to crying was when Sid Gardiner came, with a bunch of golden chrysanthemums like little suns. He laid them on her lap and then buried his face in her shoulder and cried and cried.

On the second day Cecilia was allowed to come down and join the family for lunch, though she had to be carried in by her father, since she was still so weak. On the third day she walked downstairs by herself and helped Aunt Nan with the breakfast dishes-- all the while making sure not to get her cast wet. But on the fourth day after it all, she woke before anyone else in the house and had a great breakfast steaming on the table when they came down.

Cecilia was back to normal-- she was better than normal.

Because Mother was here!

Cecilia could barely take her eyes off of Mother's dear face for a second, lest she vanish like a puff of smoke. Grandfather Meredith did it, too-- it was a long walk from the manse to Ingleside, especially with his rheumatism, but he did it every day. Aunt Faith did it-- her eyes followed Una hungrily-- and Mary Vance spent most of her time at Ingleside, her fat, brown hand tucked possessively around Una's thin, white one.

"I suppose I'm neglecting my children terribly," Mary Vance laughed. "_And_ my husband. But Nellie can get up a meal almost as good as I can, and what doesn't kill them will make them stronger. Say, Una, why didn't you have any boys to marry those wild girls of mine? Then we could be as good as real sisters."

"There's always Marshall," Joy laughed, overhearing. "Only he's a little young. Anyway, Cathy is in love with Gil, and Nellie is positively _pining_ for Walt."

This time it was Walt's turn to overhear and he blushed crimson to the tips of his ears. "She does not," he mumbled. In truth, he quite preferred the dainty Catharine Douglas to the brash, hardy Nellie. He hadn't known she was in love with Gil, but he supposed that Joy _must_ know. Girls were always telling each other their secrets. Could Gil be in love with _her_, too? Walt ran out, and down to Rainbow Valley. He wouldn't _ask_ Gil about it--he would just mention her name-- and let the chips fall where they may.

Una laughed as he went. It _was so good_ to be home!

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"How we visit to the shore this week-end?" Uncle Jerry asked at the supper table. "All of us-- since we're almost all here-- and who knows when this will happen again?"

"Oh, please, lets!" chorused the little Annes, and the young boys tried to cover their excitement with nonchalance. But it showed anyway.

It was such a happy, homey scene. Aunts Faith and Rilla were talking in low voices as they cleared the table, and they sounded so much sweeter than the dire news coming from the radio. Grandmother was pouring them all cinnamon tea-- how Cecilia loved the smell of cinnamon tea, though the taste of it burned her throat so! Cecilia sat with Father on one side and Mary Vance on the other, and both of them fussed over her so. Mother had slipped into the garden like a moth in a white dress and filmy shawl.

A visit to the shore would be so nice! Cecilia almost clapped her hands in excitement. She hadn't been since earlier in the summer-- she'd gone with Sid-- then in all the excitement over Uncle Bruce and Aunt Penny's wedding, there had been no time for it. But what was Father saying?

"That does sound like a good idea, Jerry, but we're going to be flying out Friday morning."

"Oh!" Cecilia gasped and then choked as disappointment welled up within her. She supposed she must have known that they would go home--sometime--but she hadn't expected it to be so soon. And she never would have admitted it, but now that Mother and Father were both here, a small part of her had really thought they would live here, on the Island, always!

She could not bear it. She pushed back from the table and flew out into the night.

Cecilia walked for a long time before she realized where she was headed. She looked at her feet ruefully. Besides being very muddy, they had betrayed her! She looked up at the sleeping white house in front of her. It's windows glimmered in the moonlight.

"I might as well go and see it one last time," she sighed. "_Dear_ Red Apple Farm-- oh, the hopes I had for you!"

She sat down with a thud on the wide front porch and buried her face in her hands and wept.

Cecilia wept for so long and so hard that she did not notice someone else was sitting in the shadows on that porch, appreciating the way the apple trees danced together in the moonlight. They were slim white, pretty maidens-- but not half so pretty, Una Blythe thought, as her own girl was, even with a tearstained face and windblown hair.

"Whatever is the matter, dearest?" Mother asked, laying her hand on Cecilia's shining hair. "Are you feeling ill?"

"Oh-- Mother!" Cecilia cried. "I didn't know you were here. No--I'm quite fine--bodily, at least."

"It's your soul, then, that aches," said Mother wisely.

"Yes-- oh, I don't want to leave the Island, Mother." Cecilia dried her eyes and looked up plaintively. "Of course I want to be wherever you and Father are-- but I don't want to leave Grandmother and Grandfather and Grandpa and Grandma Rosemary and the aunts and Uncles-- and Joy-- and Trudy-- and Blythe."

"I am glad that you have grown to love the Island so much," Mother said. "One of the things that I always will regret is that Susan had such little time to get to know it."

Mother--had spoken of Susan! Nonchalantly, without crying. Her voice sounded even and happy! Cecilia looked at Mother sharply, but Mother had already moved on to other things.

"I have always loved this place," she said. "This little house is where I learned to love. When I had to leave the Island, I thought it would kill me all at once-- but instead I just started dying by inches. It does--hurt-- to come back here, but it's a good, clean sort of hurt. Not like the hurt when I'm away from it."

"Why does it hurt you, Mother?"

Mother smiled. "I don't want there to be any secrets between us, dear," she said. "Let's tell each other all of ours-- but you go first. I still have to build up the courage to tell you things I am ashamed of, now. Tell me, darling Cecilia, what has your life been like this past year? I'm ashamed of that already-- that I _don't_ know what it's been like."

Cecilia talked of Sid-- and Blythe-- and the problems with Joy, haltingly at first, but then easily, and casually. It was so nice to confide in Mother! She told Mother of her hopes and dreams-- she would like to go to nursing school one day-- even medical school perhaps. Mother did not dash her hopes, but nodded sympathetically and helped her make her plans. She laughed when Cecilia told about the great romance between Bruce and Miss Branston.

"Dear Bruce," she said. "I can't wait to meet the woman that's captured his heart."

Finally Cecilia had exhausted herself and it was Mother's turn. She sat in silence, collecting her thoughts, and then spoke.

"I was in love when I first came to this house," she said. "But it was not with Shirley."

Cecilia's mouth dropped. "Who was it, then?"

"You never knew your Uncle Walter," said Mother, as if Cecilia had not even spoken. "He was so tall-- so fair-- so velvety fair-- we looked more like brother and sister than he and Nan or Di, or he and Rilla. Walter was in love with Faith you know, for ever so long-- so was Jem--just like Gil and young Walt are in love with Catharine Douglas now. It is funny how history repeats itself! But I hope none of you young ones will repeat my mistake.

"I never cared that he loved Faith-- I never hated Faith for it. For _I_ couldn't have ever told him-- I was shy. _So_ shy-- it took me longer to get over it than it has you, darling Cecilia. Well you know the rest-- Walter left-- he died-- and I still loved him. Then your Father asked me to marry him-- and I said yes. I had no idea what I was doing! For a long time I was tortured-- so tortured! Until I realized that I loved him-- loved Shirley so desperately-- and he was sick, and I almost lost him without ever telling him. Even after I realized that Shirley was the one for me-- and that what I had felt for Walter was a flush of first, young love-- I still grieved for the lost possibility."

"Kirkegaard says that the saddest thing in the world is what might have been but never was," Cecilia piped up. "I believe him."

"So do I," smiled Mother. "But after we lost Susan-- and after I almost lost you-- I have seen that there are more important things to lose than possibilities. Oh, I think this old house remembers me, Cecilia. I wish I could go in-- what would we find? A young, mother, Una-ghost? A baby ghost with soft dark curls and rosebud lips? That's _you_. Or maybe just the ghosts of happy memories. We've had so many here."

"We can go in, Mother!" Cecilia had to stop herself from wriggling like a puppy. "Come on! I'll show you!"

They climbed the rose trellis together like young girls and slipped inside the skylight. Then arm-in-arm they wandered through the darkened house. Mother pointed out certain spots as they went.

"Here is where you were born-- here is where I was standing when I first realized I loved Shirley. Oh, Cecilia, I was standing by this window, looking out when I first felt you kick, from inside of me! It was _such_ a strange, wonderful feeling! Look-- Gog and Magog! I'd forgotten about them! Oh, and will I ever forget the time I had the visiting minister's wife over for tea-- at _that very table_-- and a _mouse_ ran across her foot! I had no idea what to do, so I kept pouring the tea. She was shrieking and carrying on and all I could say was 'Two lumps or one?'"

They laughed together over the thought.

"Cecilia," said Mother, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes and growing suddenly serious. "Would you like it-- if me and you and Father were to live here-- forever? In this very house? You would, I can see it."

"Yes, I would." Cecilia felt something like a dream start to grow in her chest.

"Then we will," said Mother happily.

"Oh-- Mother-- really? But--how will we convince Father?"

"It won't be hard," Mother laughed. "Shirley hates the city, though he tells himself he doesn't. He's Island through and through-- he'll never be comfortable when there's too many people around. I know he misses these red roads--and this dear white house-- as much as I do."

"Besides," an impish dimple appeared in Mother's cheek. "You're a recovering invalid and I'm crazy. _Those_ are our trump cards."

They unlocked the front door and went out together, not bothering to lock it again behind them. They'd be back the very next day-- when the sun rose-- and they would start putting the house to rights. But for now they were very happy with the moonlit scene around them.

Mother gave a deep curtsy and faced the ring of apple trees around the house. "I'd like to introduce you to someone," she said to the trees, which looked like they were _listening_ eagerly to her words. She put her arm around her girl. "This is my Cecilia-- Cecilia of Red Apple Farm!"

A slight wind came up off the gulf and tossed the dry leaves on the branches. And it sounded for all the world like the trees were applauding.


	26. Epilogue: What Is to Be

MAY 1940

Una Blythe looked out her window at the morning and then down at the sleeping baby in her arms with a small, contented sigh.

Some had said that she was too old to be a mother again-- but look how perfect this baby was! There was nothing wrong with _her_. Some people had said she was crazy for trying it, at her age-- Mary Vance had been one of them-- but then Mary had gone home and knitted the forthcoming arrival pair after pair of booties. The tiny, brand-new baby that yawned like a kitten in her mother's arms was not yet a day old and already had a wardrobe that would put most girls to shame.

Others had said more hurtful things. Mrs. Bertie Shakespeare Drew had meant well when she said,

"This babe will surely take the place of the one you lost."

"Oh _no_," Una had replied, a fierce light springing into her eyes. "This baby will have a place of its own. Just as Susan will always, _always_ have hers."

But Una had worried. What if the baby looked like Susan? Or worse yet-- what if it looked nothing like her? Una had cried when she saw her new daughter's blue eyes-- they were the same blue eyes that her other girls had. Everyone said that baby's eyes always changed-- but Una knew these eyes would stay the same.

But apart from those eyes little Rosemary Blythe looked nothing like the rest of her family. She had a fine, peaches-and-cream skin and hair of spun gold, like something in a fairy-tale. Shirley came in with the breakfast tray and seemed to read her thoughts.

"She's nothing like either of us," he laughed. "Una, are you sure this isn't a changling baby, brought to us by the fairies?"

"I'm _sure_," Una said with a wry smile. "Anyway, my mother--the first Cecilia--had blonde hair as a girl, though it darkened as she grew up. Maybe Rosemary's will, too."

Together they watched their child sleep.

"Cecilia--Susan--and now Rosemary," said Shirley contentedly. "Now we've got to have one more and name her Anne. Then we'll have one called after each of our mothers."

"I'm sorry, dear," Una laughed. "But I think this is to be our last. I'm so old, Shirley. I saw Mrs Marigold Guest at church last week with her newest and she and the baby together looked like a stained glass window of the Madonna and child. But I look so _old_."

"Don't ever let me hear you saying such a thing again," Shirley admonished her. "You, old? You look younger than the day I met you."

"I was eight years old when you met me!"

"Hush, and let me be romantic. Oh, well, little Rosemary, you're destined to be the youngest. It's for the best, though-- there are plenty of Annes in this family already. Look, Una, she's smiling-- who says that babies this age don't smile? I'm going to get the camera. Tickle her, keep her laughing!"

Una ran her fingers over the baby's belly as Shirley bounded from the room. From downstairs she heard him whistling as he looked for a canister of film. From the open window, Cecilia's happy voice floated up from the porch, where she was talking with Joy. She was telling Joy about the baby. "She's the most beautiful thing! And Joy, when I saw her for the first time, I swear I felt as if I had seen her somewhere before."

Una looked at Susan's portrait on the wall over the dresser-- and _she_ could swear that the girl's dimple deepened.

Shirley came back with the camera and started snapping away. "Cecilia!" he shouted. "Get your carcass up here, pronto! We're taking a family picture."

Cecilia tripped up there stairs, Joy close behind her, and Shirley posed them all, even Joy, who insisted that she shouldn't be in it. But Shirley insisted harder. Then he set the camera on the bureau, fixed the timer, and ran to join them.

They would see later that from the angle the picture was taken, Susan's portrait could be seen on the wall above them. And through the open window, Blythe had been caught coming up the lane.

Cecilia and Joy ran to meet him. Shirley went downstairs to give the boy a cigar-- which he took, hardly knowing how to refuse it. Oh, dear! What would Nan say?

They all sounded so sweet and happy and full of dreams. Una thought fleetingly of the war over in Europe. Who knew how much longer they had to smile and laugh and dream? But she pushed those thoughts from her mind and kissed Rosemary's hair. For now it was a lovely spring day, the mayflowers were out in Rainbow Valley, and Una was happy.


End file.
